


Raw (English version)

by kirin_calls



Series: Gravity (English version) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, Slow Burn, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 149,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirin_calls/pseuds/kirin_calls
Summary: When John takes up mixed martial arts training, he doesn't expect it to lead to a new relationship. But there are darker things afoot at the gym, and John is soon drawn in deeper than he wants. When an old flame from Sherlock's past turns up, it's time for everyone to declare their loyalties... and for John to finally discover where his heart truly belongs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).



> This fic originally started out with a prompt I got from a friend and was supposed to be a one-shot, but the story that grew around it very quickly developed a life of its own! :)
> 
> I posted the [original version](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3771112/chapters/8379229) in German in 2015.
> 
> +++
> 
> My deepest gratitude goes to the talented [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile), who translated this story from German to English! Thank you so much! <3
> 
> +++
> 
> Part 2 can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14207568/chapters/32751174).

John hissed between gritted teeth as he tightened the bandage around his hand. Just a couple of scrapes and sore bones, no big deal. But the adrenaline pumping through his body was more than enough compensation for the pain.

A thump made him turn around. He hadn't heard Sherlock come up the stairs. Leaning in the doorway, Sherlock looked John over, observed the facts, and drew his conclusions. Did he suspect what John was up to? John didn't know. He hadn't told Sherlock anything about his new hobby. He couldn't say exactly why. Maybe because Sherlock wouldn't understand. Because he'd say it was ridiculous, that it didn't make any sense. And he would be right.

But none of that made any difference. John couldn't resist the high. He'd known from the start that he wouldn't be able to hide the marks, that questions would be asked, but that didn't matter. He didn't owe anyone an explanation. He turned to Sherlock and looked at him, questioning. If he wanted information, he should ask for it, not expect John to spit it out on his own.

"You've changed," Sherlock remarked, crossing his arms over his chest.

A faint smirk played at the edges of John's mouth. He had changed, it was true. Over the past few weeks, his body had undergone a minor transformation. His posture was more erect, more self-assured. His muscles were starting to become defined beneath his clothes. It was obvious he was working out, and he wasn't trying to hide it. But the reason for the workouts... that was what he wasn't telling Sherlock.

"The gym's good for me, I think," he responded. Except it was no normal gym. Of course there were a few pieces of equipment at _Smax_ to work out on, but the fitness studio had an entirely different purpose. Men and women met up there several times a week to test their hand-to-hand combat skills against each other. There was a wide variety of professions represented amongst the members. From uni students to solicitors and everything in between. Some dubious characters showed up from time to time, but it wasn't easy to tell them apart from the others. It didn't matter anyway: everyone was the same there in the smelly, sweaty hall.

John wasn't the only ex-military member to get his kicks there. Bridget had served in the Royal Marines and been released from service after she'd been badly injured in the line of duty. She and John quickly connected due to their similar histories. They exchanged stories, talked about losing buddies, and the nightmares they were both still plagued by from time to time. Bridget was a good sparring partner, and they sometimes went out for coffee after a good match.

But Bridget hadn't shown up this week. Since John hadn't made any other contacts amongst the other members, he was training alone, watching the other fighters in order to determine who would be suited as a sparring partner. He wasn't sure yet. Maybe someone would approach him at some point.

He gave Sherlock an innocent smile and stretched the fingers of his bandaged hand. It would be back to normal in a couple of days.

"Do you also want tea?" John asked and walked past Sherlock down the stairs.

 

*****

 

Three days later, on Friday, John shouldered his duffel bag and went down to the living room. Sherlock lay on the sofa, his hands folded over his chest and his eyes closed. He was clearly deep in thought.

"I'm off to the gym," John said shortly, clearing his throat. Since Sherlock didn't react, he turned around and left. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock not to notice whether John came or left, especially when he was working on a case or lost in the depths of his mind palace. John was usually of little interest to Sherlock in those moments anyway, leaving him free to busy himself with other things without his flatmate missing him.

John hailed a taxi and had the driver bring him to the Port of London. _Smax_ had set up shop in an out-of-the-way warehouse. A small plaque at the entrance was the only indication of the name. The fact that such a facility existed was mainly passed around by word of mouth. There was no publicity or internet presence.

Along with two boxing rings, there was a separate area with boxing bags, one with dumbbells and weights, and a couple of rowing machines. All of the equipment was paid for and maintained by the members. John went to the changing rooms, which were next to a storage room. Men and women shared the locker room and showers without any problems. Mutual respect was a top priority and the gym's most important unwritten rule.

John set down his bag on the floor in the back part of the changing room and opened an empty locker, hung up his jacket, and started to change. His hand was more or less all better; all that was left was a scab on his knuckles, which he viewed with more pride than having it bother him. He pulled on his knee-length grey shorts and his well-loved, threadbare college t-shirt, slipped into his trainers, and finally went back into the main hall.

A couple of skipping ropes were lying around by the dumbbells, so he took one to warm up. While he counted jumps in his head, he let his gaze wander across the others he could see in the mirror. Matt, known as a primary school teacher, was lifting weights nearby and followed his line of sight.

"Look at that, John, we have a new member," he said, nodding at the ring.

John did as he was bid without pausing in his activity, and saw a man in black tracksuit bottoms and a tank top with his back turned to them. He wore red sparring headgear and matching gloves. He was of medium height with relatively broad shoulders, and it was obvious that he worked out regularly. He nervously shifted his weight back and forth from one leg to the other.

John had a clear memory of his first match. He'd been nervous too, hadn't known what to expect. Of course he'd watched a couple of other fights beforehand, but it was completely different to stand in the ring himself and prepare to slug it out. Taking hits had been relatively easy, on the other hand. The whole thing had taken him back to his days in the military, where they'd often had training fights. He'd always felt wonderfully free afterwards.

The new fellow was fighting against one of the solicitors. It was immediately obvious that this wasn't his first fistfight. He danced around his opponent with clever footwork, swerved sideways to avoid the first few test punches, and slowly inched his way forward. The solicitor used the opportunity to follow up with a right hook, but the new man was able to deflect him, countering with a left. Hit by the unexpected force, the solicitor staggered back and crouched down, one leg extended behind him so as not to lose his balance. Then the new man made a classic error. He had underestimated the force of his own blow and was now concerned that he might have injured his opponent. He bent over him apologetically, only to feel the solicitor's knee in his gut a moment later. He fell to the floor, gasping and holding his smarting abdomen.

John had to grin.

The members of _Smax_ were used to taking quite a lot, and wouldn't have been upset by a punch like that – even though it had been remarkably powerful. But they'd all had to learn not to get slowed by their own control mechanisms, because the opponent would leap on a weakness like that and turn it to his or her advantage. The new man was panting when he took the solicitor's proffered hand and let himself be helped to his feet. They shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulders. Then he took off the headgear and ran a hand through his silver hair.

John gaped and forgot all about his skipping rope. He knew that man. Not well, to be sure, but they ran into each other frequently, more or less worked together, even if Sherlock was always the link between them. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard had come down to mix with the members of _Smax_ , and to judge by the look on his face, he'd just found himself a new hobby. John let the skipping rope drop to the ground and went over to the ring.

"Lestrade," he said, raising his hand in greeting. Greg turned to the ex-soldier, his surprise giving way to a friendly smile.

"Watson, what are you doing here?" he asked and climbed out of the ring.

"The same as you, I assume. Who brought you in?"

Greg pointed to two men talking next to the ring. John knew that one of them was a police officer, but he'd never seen him at the Yard.

"Work buddies. More or less. Different division, but we sometimes meet up for a pint," Greg explained, giving John an assessing look. "How long have you been doing this?"

John shrugged. "Maybe a couple of weeks. It all reminds me a little of the military. I used to do stuff like this fairly often and I'm just glad to have found these guys here. How about you?"

Greg scratched the back of his head and searched for words, apparently embarrassed. "Well... I don't know how to say this without it sounding negative... As a D.I. I don't see as much action as I used to, which should be a good thing. I used to get into quite a few scuff-ups, but that's changed as my career has progressed. As a police officer, you usually need to try to avoid situations like that, or rather, it can make for a lot of trouble if you injure a civilian. Not that I'm planning to injure anyone," he rushed to clarify, raising his hands in a defensive gesture.

"I get it. Just letting loose, working off steam, and if you find yourself a worthy opponent in the ring... I reckon lots of us feel that way. In that case..." He reached for Greg's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Welcome!"

John turned away and went back to his skipping rope. After he'd warmed up sufficiently, he went over to Matt, who didn't have a practise partner at the moment, and asked him for a match. They'd never matched up against each other before, and John felt the buzz of a slight case of nerves. A new opponent was always a special kind of thrill, since you never knew what to prepare for, where his or her strengths and weaknesses lay, and which moves you needed to watch out for.

They entered the ring and John pulled on the headgear, adjusted his gloves, and rolled his neck a few times to stretch. Matt was half a head taller than he was and at least fifteen kilos heavier. A well placed blow could easily put John out of commission. But John knew his strengths; he was light on his feet and skilled at quickly identifying his opponents' weaknesses. He therefore noticed right away that Matt's balance leaned heavily toward the right, and his left foot always dragged a little behind. It was a simple matter to concentrate on his left side and eventually lead him into attempting a kick with his left leg. As expected, the force was negligible, and John easily blocked the attack, let Matt's ankle slip up under his armpit, and pushed his knee away where it hung suspended in the air, such that the other man lost his balance and fell to the floor. Still holding firmly onto Matt's leg, John landed a targeted blow to his head. The round went to him. He helped Matt up, then they separated and started the next round.

This time, Matt was more careful, dancing around John and trying to pinpoint his weak spot. He kept his left side protected and dished out a few quick, pointed jabs. John was able to avoid the first one, but he was pushed into the defensive more and more, until eventually one punch landed and hit him in the left shoulder. Pain seared through him, a lingering hum in his old war injury. Knocked off balance, he was no longer able to prevent Matt from putting him in a headlock. With remarkable presence of mind, John wrapped his arms around the other man's hips and rolled backwards, heaving Matt over him and coming back up onto his knees. Another well placed blow decided this round for John as well.

Breathing hard, he got to his feet and took off the protective headgear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Greg, who had been watching the match and now whistled approvingly. John had to grin. He tossed the helmet to Greg and slipped out through the ropes.

"I've still got it," he preened proudly, loosening his gloves.

"I can see that! I have to admit I didn't expect it of you, Watson. You always make such a peaceable impression when I see you together with Sherlock."

"Maybe we should dispense with the formalities. Everyone's on a first-name basis here, and it seems weird for us to call each other by our last names. John," John said, reaching a hand out to the Detective Inspector.

"Greg," he replied with a friendly smile. "Do you want to maybe go grab a pint afterwards? It seems I got the wrong impression of you, and I'd like to update it."

John agreed. Once they'd changed and showered, they went to a pub not far from _Smax_. They ordered pints at the bar, then sat down at a table in order not to be in the middle of the press of other guests. Curious, John examined the Detective Inspector's face as he took a sip of his beer.

"What is it?" Greg asked, digging into the bowl of peanuts that stood on the table.

"How do you feel after your first match?"

"Good! I mean... you know, I've learned my lesson. I won't hold back next time. But I'll probably be stiff in the morning," he said, rubbing his shoulder demonstratively. "I could really go for a nice massage right now! But no one's waiting for me at home who'd want to do that."

John didn't miss the teasing undertone in Greg's voice. He cleared his throat loudly and drew his eyebrows together. "Me either," he said firmly, giving Greg a slightly irritated glare.

"But Sherlock..."

"I'm not gay, Greg," John cut him off.

"But Sherlock..." Greg said again, this time not as a question but as a statement. John shook his head wearily and drank some more of his beer. Several moments passed before he returned his attention to the other man. "I don't know if Sherlock's gay or straight or anything else. And I don't care. We're friends – no more and no less. But mainly, I'm – not – gay."

Silence fell. Greg leaned back in his chair and let his eyes roam through the pub. He'd clearly gone too far. He hadn't intended to insult John at all. The fact that pretty much everyone assumed the ex-soldier was in a relationship with Sherlock must annoy him awfully. Maybe it wasn't possible to accept such a close relationship between two men these days without turning it into a romance. Greg had to admit it was hard for him as well, especially since he wasn't so sure whether both of the men saw things quite so platonically...

John looked over at him after a few minutes. "So you think Sherlock really is... gay?" he asked, unable to suppress the uncertainty in his voice.

"Well..." Greg began, leaning on his forearms. "I know him pretty well... known him over five years now. I've only seen him in something like a romantic situation with another person once in all that time. That was way back at the beginning. I was getting on his case because he kept backsliding into the whole drugs thing. I couldn't get him out. It was probably all down to this fellow... what was his name again... V... Vincent, no, Victor. Victor Trevor."

Greg took a sip of his beer while John watched him attentively. He didn't know much about Sherlock's past, since Sherlock didn't talk about it. When they'd met, John had asked whether he had a girlfriend, but he denied it with the remark that it _wasn't his area_. The follow-up question as to whether he had a boyfriend had been answered with a simple _no_ , and with that, the entire topic had been closed and never touched on again. The conclusion that Sherlock was gay was a rather obvious leap to make, but John hadn't wanted to think about it any further. At the same time, Mrs Hudson's constant comments about their _relationship_ would support the notion. The likelihood that she had witnessed some aspect of Sherlock's love life was rather large. And the fact that his new flatmate might also be gay was certainly within the realm of possibility. John sighed.

"Not that I ever caught them in the act or anything... they were just kissing. But... it was pretty hot," Greg confessed, taking another sip of his beer. John was just barely able to refrain from spitting his drink out all over the table and ended up swallowing the wrong way. He coughed and glanced up at the other man. Greg grinned at him knowingly.

"I thought you were married? I mean to a woman..."

"I was. Not that that means anything. I'm bi, always have been and probably always will be," Greg replied with a shrug. "Is that a problem for you?"

"No..." John's answer didn't sound very convincing, but he did mean it. He didn't honestly care who amongst his acquaintances was straight, bi, or gay; it just bothered him when people assumed things about him that weren't true.

"I'll get us another couple of pints," Greg offered and stood up. John watched him go, his brow creasing in thought. So Sherlock really was gay. Not that it surprised him. It was more the fact that John couldn't imagine him in a relationship. On the other hand, he'd obviously been single for quite a while now, and might be very happy that way.

 _Why am I even thinking about this? It's none of my business!_ John thought, and continued with his observations. Without even really intending to, he started to imagine Greg with another man at his side, but the image didn't want to fit into his head. _Enough!_ This was far too much useless wool-gathering for what was intended to be a relaxing night out. He firmly swept all such thoughts under the rug and reached for the second pint that Greg handed him.

 

*****

 

Next morning, John woke with a headache. He grudgingly turned onto his side, away from the sunlight streaming into the room through the window, and hid his face under the cover, moaning. He'd had at least two pints too many last night. After they'd finally put the topic of sexual orientation behind them, they'd talked about all sorts of things and John had had a good time. Greg had talked about his marriage, about how his wife had become more and more unhappy the further he climbed the career ladder and consequently had less time for her. And whenever they did see each other, they'd done nothing but fight and vent their frustrations until she'd decided to try to find what she was missing with another man and had an affair. Greg had never forgiven her for that.

Ever since the divorce, he'd thrown himself even harder into his work and basically had no more free time between his bed and his desk. That was another reason he'd been so happy to accept the invitation from his co-worker to join him at _Smax_. John was fine with it too, given that the Detective Inspector made such a good impression on him. He didn't have many friends at the moment, come to that. It would be good for him to spend time with someone who wasn't named Sherlock and didn't drive him up the wall.

After he'd shaved and showered, John went down to the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove, and dropped a headache tablet into a glass of water. As he drained the glass, he watched Sherlock, who was using a pipette to drip a pink liquid into a Petri dish. The strip of white paper lying in the dish turned green when it came into contact with the liquid. John didn't want to ask what Sherlock was determining the pH value of, or whether he was doing something else altogether. His head still hurt like the dickens, and he wanted to spare himself his flatmate's snarky retort. He took a slice of toast and put a generous spoonful of strawberry jam on it, spread it around, and licked off the rest before he dropped the spoon into the sink. With his tea in one hand and the toast in his mouth, he went into the living room and sat down in front of the television to watch the news.

"You shouldn't drink so much, John," Sherlock said eventually without looking up.

"What's 'much'..." John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. The headache was horrible, but he wasn't in the mood to agree with Sherlock.

"Too much. Enough that you need to be brought home and can't remember anything next morning."

"Who says I don't remember?" John asked in a derogatory tone. He didn't feel like confirming Sherlock's assumption this time either, even though no matter how hard he tried, he had no recollection of how he'd got home the night before.

Sherlock set aside his pipette, took some tea for himself and came into the living room. He drank a sip and gave John a searching look.

"So you do remember then? That Greg brought you home?"

John regarded him silently. He presumed Greg had made sure the ex-soldier had found his way home despite his drunken state. Greg seemed to be able to handle more when it came to alcohol, and as a well-meaning, all-round good guy, it would be in his nature to make sure that his new buddy got where he was going safely.

An undefined smile slipped onto Sherlock's face and he turned away to return to his experiment in the kitchen. "You don't remember..." he sing-songed, giggling darkly.

John stood up, annoyed, and stalked after him. "Tell me – what terrible thing am I supposed to have done? Spit it out so you can rub my nose in it already then," he demanded, his arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock picked up a pair of tweezers and held the piece of coloured paper up to the light. "It's none of my business," he replied after a few seconds. Without changing his position, he let his gaze slide over to John, who was stubbornly awaiting a more adequate answer.

"Has it been going on long?" Sherlock asked instead.

John returned his gaze, irritated. "What?"

"I must admit, I had no idea. Didn't see it on you. Especially as you continued to maintain your facade. Including around me." A flash of disappointment was audible in Sherlock's voice, but John had no idea what to make of it. In the meantime, his headache was now concentrated in his right temple, as if it were trying to drill a hole in his skull.

"Could you please just tell me what you're talking about? My head is about to split and I have exactly no interest in playing guessing games. You're right, I don't remember anything, drank too much, shouldn't have done it, yadda yadda. Help me out here, yeah?" John asked, aggravated, and used his fingertips to massage the spot where the pain lurked.

Sherlock gave him an amused look, a winning smile on his face. "I'm talking about you and Graham."

"Graham?" John wasn't following him. Who was Graham and what had been going on for a long time? The pain was horrendous.

Sherlock tapped his index finger against his chin thoughtfully. "Gavin?" he asked, but John still didn't seem to have made the connection. He sighed with exasperation. "Lestrade!" he blurted out impatiently.

John, who had been trying to control the rising vertigo by squeezing his eyes shut and scrunching up his forehead, grunted darkly. "His name's Greg."

"And how long have the two of you been together?" Sherlock finally asked straight out.

"What kind of bloody... ow..."

"The way you were pawing each other last night... don't tell me that was the first time?"

John froze. Had he heard that correctly? Greg and he... last night... drunk... pawing... each other?!

 

+++

 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John paced restlessly back and forth in his room, trying to remember the events of the previous night. He was only partially successful. He could recall several pints of beer, talking and laughing a lot, and Greg amiably putting his arm around John's shoulder. But then... the curtain fell. Nothing else. Neither how they'd left the pub nor how Greg had hauled him to Baker Street. Not how they'd come up the stairs and certainly not how Greg had kissed him … or how they'd kissed each other.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. It had to be a misunderstanding. Who knew what Sherlock had actually seen. Maybe he was just pulling John's leg, making fun of him for always insisting – _correctly_ – that he wasn't gay. Because if Sherlock really was gay – and it was funny John hadn't forgot that little titbit – then maybe he'd got insulted as he tended to do for some ridiculous reason and saw this as his chance to teach John a lesson. But why should he do that? The notion was absurd.

John looked around his room for his phone, finally spotting it between the folds of his sheets. He scrolled through his contact list. There was no entry under Greg or Lestrade. So they hadn't exchanged numbers. John knew Sherlock had the Detective Inspector's number, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by asking for it. He huffed in annoyance, threw the phone back down onto the bed, and decided not to think about the whole thing anymore. It obviously didn't make sense, and he didn't want to drive himself mad over something without there being any chance of denying it... or confirming it.

Making a spur of the moment decision, John reached for his jacket and set off to go out. When he passed by the door leading into the living room, he heard Sherlock still in the kitchen clinking with his test tubes, but didn't stop to say good-bye. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that John didn't want to see him at the moment.

John stomped down the street without any particular goal in mind, not sure where to go. After a while, he decided to stop at the next cafe he passed and buy himself a coffee. He took the cup and sat by the window, where he looked out and bounced his foot nervously, occupied with _not_ thinking about Greg and what might possibly have happened the night before. After he'd finished his drink, he tossed the cup into the bin and went back out. Maybe he should ask Sherlock exactly what he'd seen after all instead of torturing himself all day.

But Sherlock wasn't home when he got back. Frustrated, he grabbed his sports duffel and headed for _Smax_. Since he wasn't getting anywhere here, he might as well revert to his original plan and make his brain shut up. And what was better for that than a good fistfight?

The gym was relatively empty this early in the afternoon, however. There were only two other athletes there, and they were casually sparring with each other to warm up before engaging in a real match. John went to the changing room and changed into his sports gear, laced up his trainers, and went back into the main hall. As on the previous day, he used the skipping rope to warm up and took the opportunity to observe the other members, whose match was turning more serious.

Both of them were nimble and in a certain way well matched for each other. The rounds lasted longer than the five minutes that were usually set. Blow for blow, kick for kick, they danced around each other. Most of the points were made when one of them knocked the other one down in order to land a hit. After a while, they bumped fists amicably before the taller one left the ring, raised his hand toward John in greeting, and disappeared into the changing room.

"Hey, John," called the man who had stayed behind, lifting his fists to ask whether John was ready to fight. John nodded to him, took one last sip from his water bottle, then went to the boxing ring, climbed through the ropes, and greeted the other man again by bumping gloves.

"Sorry, I don't remember your name..."

"Call me Phil," the man said and winked. John nodded curtly then turned his back to Phil, checked the sit of his gloves, and finally put on the sparring helmet.

 _Focus!_ he reminded himself and turned to face his opponent, raised his fists, and started to rock on the balls of his feet to get into motion. Phil was ready too and did the same. They circled each other for a while, assessing, prowling. Eventually, Phil was the one who shattered the peace, attacking with a pair of unexpectedly fast, head-on punches that John blocked with less ease than he was comfortable with. When he saw the next hook coming, he dropped down into a crouch, using the momentum to turn on his own axis and knock Phil's feet out from under him with a directed kick.

The larger man tumbled to the ground, but rolled himself over his shoulder with practised ease and was on his feet a second later. He grinned playfully at John, then lunged at him and led with his knee. John just barely blocked it using both hands to push it away, only to feel his opponent's hands on his head the next moment. The other knee shot out, catching him on the chin. John was only able to intercept it partially with his left arm, and the blow caught him hard, sending him catapulting backwards. He struggled to maintain his balance, but was promptly hit by Phil's roundhouse kick, which sent him to the ground. He lay there, groaning. Nausea welled up inside him and his head ached. It wasn't just the hits, the rest of the alcohol in his blood was getting to him too. He was slower and less focused than usual.

But he wasn't about to give up that easily. His fighting spirit had been awakened despite – or perhaps because of – the pain throbbing through his arms and abdomen. He wiped the spit from his chin with his lower arm and licked his smarting lips. He'd apparently bit himself when he fell, but not hard enough to bleed. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them up and disperse the tension, raised his fists again, and nodded to Phil to give him the signal to start again.

Phil didn't wait long. It was more than clear that he had taken note of John's weakened state and planned to take advantage of it. Blows rained down on his raised arms, only interrupted by occasional knee kicks. John barely had a chance to counter the blows, much less reach for the other man and knock him off his feet. Instead, he concentrated on minimising the damage and hoped Phil would tire out. But he seemed to be drawing on endless reserves.

Several minutes later, John's arms and legs were burning as if they were on fire; his muscles protested, and he panted with exhaustion. In a last-ditch effort, he grabbed for Phil's arm as it shot out, and caught it with surprising ease. Phil must have thought John wouldn't put up any more of a fight, and underestimated the situation. With the last of his strength and utilising the momentum of the attack, John twisted his opponent's arm and levered him over his back, threw him to the ground and doled out a direct kick to his chin. Then he let himself drop to the floor and lay there spread-eagled, breathing hard.

"Nice one..." Phil said a few minutes later, dragging himself into a kneeling position. "Good match. We should do it again. But next time come sober so you can put up a decent defence!" He laughed in a conciliatory manner and held his hand out to John.

"Just let me lie here and die," John moaned, waving off the assistance. Although every bone in his body hurt, he wasn't upset. If anyone had reason to be angry, it was Phil. After all, John had cheated him out of a fair, clean fight due to his condition. But the other man didn't seem to hold it against him. It wouldn't happen to John again, however. He'd probably need a couple of days to recover from the thrashing, but he was definitely going to challenge Phil to a rematch as soon as he was back to full strength.

He clambered to his feet with a concerted effort and shuffled to the changing room, changed his clothes without showering, and set out back to Baker Street. He felt like having a hot bath and a decent meal. Just as he arrived at the door to the building, a text message came in on his phone. When he checked the screen, he saw he'd also missed two calls from an unknown number. He went inside and opened the message as he went up the stairs to his room.

_Sherlock gave me your number. Can we meet up? - Greg_

John dropped his sports bag on the floor without taking his eyes off the screen, chewing on his lower lip. He considered for a moment where the best place to meet would be without making the situation any weirder than it already was. In the end he decided on Regent's Park, because he thought an open public space would be less ambiguous than a cafe or one of their flats. John wanted to put an end to the whole thing as quickly as possible, so he offered to meet Greg right away if he had time. He described the spot in the park where he would wait, cursing his nerves. When his phone finally signalled another incoming text with Greg's confirmation, he set out for the park.

The sky was overcast and there was a rather stiff wind blowing. It was cool for a spring day, but at least it wasn't raining. The park wasn't far, so John walked. He went up onto York Bridge over the boating lake and stood at the railing, letting his gaze slide out across the water. Every fibre of his body was in pain and his stomach was growling, but he knew he wouldn't be able to relax before he'd spoken to Greg. After waiting a few minutes, he saw the Detective Inspector approaching along the path. He had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket and looked as if he'd had about as little sleep as John. Then they were standing opposite each other, not saying anything. John examined the other man's face closely, trying to read there what had happened the night before and how he should act. Maybe Greg didn't remember either?

"That was pretty crazy last night," John finally said, looking him right in the eye. Greg straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. He tapped the railing nervously with his fingers and looked around the park before he was able to meet John's eyes.

"Right... erm... listen... I think you're nice and all but it would be a shame if this whole thing affected our..."

John started to laugh, although without humour. "Greg, before you say anything else... I remember absolutely nothing. Sherlock told me you brought me home, but beyond that... nothing! I really drank way too much."

"Got it... yeah... we... we kissed. For a while. That's it," Greg said, raising one hand placatingly as if to calm him, even though John had done nothing more than stare at him in disbelief. It confirmed Sherlock's assertion. They'd kissed. _For a while_. Whatever that meant. Was that supposed to appease him? John frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache was back with a vengeance. It felt as if a woodpecker were hammering away against his forehead in a desperate attempt to break out of his head.

"Listen, I'm sorry," said John. "No idea what got into me. Let's just drop the whole thing and continue where we left off... I mean... before we kissed."

Greg nodded, and the hangdog expression slowly faded from his face in favour of a smile. "Okay, that sounds reasonable. Do you want to grab something to eat? I haven't had anything yet today and my stomach's down around my knees."

"I'm starving," John answered, and they left the park together to go to a nearby takeaway and get a couple of burgers. John was relieved that they were in agreement about the topic not deserving any further attention. As they ate, John told Greg about his ill-considered match that afternoon, and the painful consequences.

"Barking... I wasn't as far gone as you, but I still wouldn't want to step into the ring today. That can only end badly," he said with a smile, shoving a couple more chips into his mouth. John nodded and took a sip of his cola.

"Yeah, I definitely don't recommend it. I'm going to need to sit the next couple of days out and lick my wounds, but maybe we can go a round or two next week – if you think you're up to it!"

He smirked at Greg's enthusiastic nod and went back to his food, although he couldn't help his thoughts returning to the Detective Inspector's words. _Not as far gone as you..._ He probably didn't mean anything by it. After all, Greg had brought him home, so he clearly hadn't been as drunk as John was, but why... _No, no, no_. John firmly shelved that thought once again.

After they finished their food, they went their separate ways. They'd agreed to meet at _Smax_ that coming Friday, so John would have time to recover and Greg could get used to the training.

Back at Baker Street, John went up the stairs to the flat, draped his jacket over the sofa in the living room, and went into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock was there, sitting at the table and already drinking a cup of tea.

"Is there any left?" John asked, lifting the lid of the teapot standing on the table.

"No, but I'll take another cup if you're brewing more," Sherlock replied. He had been bent over the newspaper and didn't look up until John sat down on the chair across from him. He drew his eyebrows together suspiciously. "What happened to your face?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you have a disagreement?" Sherlock pointed to his own chin in order to indicate where John's face showed signs of a fight.

John flipped a spoon over and attempted to catch a glimpse of his distorted reflection. It was true: he could see a bruise spreading across the right side of his jaw, right where Phil's knee had caught him that afternoon. It would likely be even darker by tomorrow. That was going to raise quite a few questions at the hospital.

"It's nothing..." John answered simply, not in any sort of mood to explain the haematoma. He stood up and poured the boiling water into the pot, tipped milk into his and Sherlock's cups, and stared at the white liquid while he waited for the tea to steep. He was well aware of Sherlock's searching gaze, but he tried to filter it out. If Sherlock wanted to have a confirmation of his deduction, he should ask. Maybe John would tell him about _Smax_. Or maybe not.

Sherlock didn't ask, so they drank their tea in a downright eerie silence with only an occasional rustle of the newspaper when a page was turned.

 

*****

 

The following week was fairly stressful. London was in the grip of a flu epidemic that spring, which meant John had a lot to do at the clinic, and on top of that there was an above average number of injuries he had to deal with. He was just writing a prescription for Mrs Kingston when the alert sounded for an incoming text message on his phone. After the patient had left the consulting room, John took his phone out of the jacket hanging on the coat rack and opened the messaging app.

_Need you at Metro Bank, Southampton. ASAP. -SH_

A rush of adrenaline instantly took hold of John. There was a case and Sherlock needed him! Regardless of how tired he'd just been, he was now wide awake and ready for any adventure. He informed the receptionist on his way out and quickly tapped out an answer to Sherlock letting him know he was on the way. Then he looked up the bank's exact address. Out on the street, he hailed a cab, jumped in, and relayed the destination. John rubbed his hands over his thighs, excited. What would be waiting for him? A mysterious theft? An interrogation of a potential suspect? A dead body?

Twenty minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of Southampton Row. John paid and got out. The bank was in the corner building and looked completely normal from the outside. No police, no barricades, and customers were going in and out. Robbery or murder was therefore unlikely. He entered the bank, took a look around for Sherlock, and found him standing in front of a rack of brochures, apparently absorbed in a pamphlet on investments.

"Sherlock," John said in greeting, with a quizzical lilt to his voice. The consulting detective turned to him and smiled.

"Good, you're here. I need your help."

"Yeah... what's this about?"

Sherlock wrapped one arm around his flatmate's shoulders and turned him around to face the tellers' windows. A brown-haired woman in a trouser suit stood there, chatting cheerfully with a customer.

"Distract her," Sherlock whispered in John's ear, causing him to break out in goose pimples. He shook Sherlock's hand off his shoulder and glared at him, his eyebrows drawn together.

"Excuse me?!" he hissed indignantly.

"Distract! Flirt with her. Invite her to dinner. Tell her how... _beautiful_ her eyes are!"

"Why?" John's voice was grim, about to turn into a growl. Whatever Sherlock was up to, he didn't like it.

"I need to use her computer, and she's not about to just give me access," Sherlock explained, his expression telegraphing that that was obvious.

"You're usually so good at putting on an act and have no scruples about wrapping women around your finger. You didn't have to make me come all the way from the clinic..."

Sherlock glanced over at the bank employee, then at John, then at the floor. He pursed his lips and thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"But she's your type..." he tried to convince John.

"How would you know what my type... Oh, come on! You're not trying to set me up with her?!" Of course Sherlock knew what type of woman John seemed to prefer. After all, he'd brought a couple of girlfriends home... who had promptly fled as soon as they'd had the pleasure of making Sherlock's acquaintance. That's why it was so strange that Sherlock was now virtually throwing a fling into his lap. Unless... "Is this... Is..." John interrupted himself and took a deep breath to calm down. "I assume you don't know her personally?" he asked in an exaggeratedly friendly tone.

"No, of course not. I've never seen her before today," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

"Are you trying to hook me up with a woman because I recently..." Another deep breath. "...came home... with Greg?" He fixed his flatmate with a tense glare, hoping desperately that he would say no. If he didn't, John was probably going to kill him.

"I merely thought it would do you good to get together with a.... more or less attractive woman, in order to solve your problem."

John leaned forward with a combination of irritation and anger, wordlessly prompting Sherlock to explain himself.

"You're obviously very confused about your sexual orientation, and a nice date might get you back on _track_." A self-satisfied smile spread across Sherlock's face. He couldn't help noticing, however, that John's hands curled into fists and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He was huffing and puffing, and a roiling fury lurked in his eyes.

"You..." John growled, raising his index finger threateningly. He needed to get out of here. Now. Otherwise he couldn't guarantee that his fist wouldn't land in his best friend's perfect face. Mustering all of his willpower, John turned on his heel and walked out of the bank.

"John!"

"Piss off, Sherlock!"

 

*****

 

Cursing and frothing with rage, John started to walk back toward Baker Street only to change his mind halfway there and go to Regent's Park instead. At some point he simply stopped and took several steps backwards, then turned back around as if he couldn't decide which direction to go in, and finally sat down on a park bench. He bounced his foot nervously, rested his elbow on his knee, and gnawed on his knuckles. Sherlock's impertinence was really getting to him. He was John's best friend, well and good, but that didn't give him the right to interfere in John's love life like that. Love life... that was saying a lot. _If only I could remember!_ he wished and closed his eyes. He brought the evening back up in his mind, he and Greg and the pub, and tried to remember what they'd talked about.

Victor Trevor. A friend of Sherlock's. An _ex-boyfriend_. Greg had seen the two of them kissing. Sherlock was gay, Greg was bi... weren't there any _normal_ people left in the world? John sighed. No, he shouldn't think like that. His own sister was gay, and it wasn't as if he actually had a problem with other people feeling attracted to their own gender and being out about their sexuality. But why did every other person he came across make that assumption about him? There had been that thing in Afghanistan, that one night... John vehemently shoved the memory away and squeezed his eyes shut. Stuffed it back into the box all the way at the bottom of his subconscious. He wasn't going to wake that dragon. Not today. Not here. That had nothing to do with Sherlock or Greg, not even with himself or the person he'd become after he returned from the war.

Still, he didn't understand Sherlock's reaction to the scene with Greg. It almost looked like he wanted to remind John to be straight. Didn't he realize he was poking at a hornet's nest? It was simply childish to nettle John like that after he'd made it clear so many times that he wasn't gay. He couldn't imagine Sherlock was doing it out of any genuine motivation to support John's insistent attitude toward the issue. On the other hand, Sherlock wasn't exactly a poster child for tact. It wouldn't be unheard of for a faux pas like that to happen to him.

 _Maybe I overreacted_ , John thought and sighed in annoyance. He sat there on the bench for quite a while, until it started to get dark. Then he set off for home, buying himself something to eat on the way.

When John entered the building, he heard Sherlock playing his violin. He took the stairs two at a time, going directly up to his room without saying hello to Sherlock or trying to initiate a conversation. Maybe enough time would have passed by the morning for John to forget his anger toward his best friend.

After lying awake for a long time, John eventually slipped into a dream filled with confusing images. He saw Sherlock being embraced and kissed by a shadowy man. His black hands ran over Sherlock's face, tilting his head to the side so that his black tongue could invade Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's expression was euphoric. Blissful. It wasn't a scene he'd ever actually seen; rather, it was an image he'd conjured up based on Greg's description.

He dreamed that the shadow leaned over Sherlock. But it was no longer Sherlock's face, it was John's. He was breathing hard and he felt his heart pounding in his throat. He looked up, reaching for the shadow's face. No sooner had he come into contact with the black nothingness than the face became Greg's, smiling knowingly at him before he closed the last few centimetres between them and kissed him. He greedily pressed his tongue into John's mouth, toyed with it, grappled with it. John felt the smooth varnish of the door to 221B Baker Street beneath his hands as he was pressed against it; the rough, sandy texture of the wall in the entryway as it scraped his shoulder. And over and over again, Greg's lips on his. Warm tingles and dancing sparks crowded his stomach and loins. Hot breath on his face, burning hands beneath his jumper and on his arse. The heady scent of skin.

_"What's going on?"_

Greg pulled away from him, and John giggled. He turned toward the voice coming from the top of the stairs, looking down at them. The silhouette of a man. A strangely hollow echo inside each word. John laughed because the whole thing was so ridiculous. He wasn't gay, yet he was this close to tearing the clothes from Greg's body so he could sink his teeth into Greg's skin, to consume every centimetre of his willing body. There were no words to express how much he suddenly yearned for that. Only kisses could express it. He reached out his hand to draw Greg closer, but Greg moved further away, leaving the building through the black hole in the wall through which they'd entered.

Listing as if on the high seas, John climbed the stairs, passing the silhouette which reached for him when he lost his balance and almost fell into the water. So many stairs, such a long way. He almost didn't make it up the last two steps, he was so tired. But the silhouette held him safely up, and a moment later he lay wrapped in soft sheets and sank into the darkness. Light and shadow inverted, white skin peeled away from the black nothingness.

And then they were back: the lips, pressing down warm and gentle over his, consuming him, teasing him, burning him. But he couldn't hold onto them. The weights hanging on his arms and legs were too heavy, pulling him slowly into the depths. His thoughts swam to the surface as his heartbeat seeped into the water, falling silent beat by beat.

John woke with a gasp, his arms shooting up as if to ward off an attack. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide open, listening to his frantic breaths. _What the bloody hell...?!_ he wondered, although his conscious mind promptly delivered the answer to his question. The memory of that night had returned. He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

Apparently, he hadn't kissed just one person that night, but two. And neither of the two candidates made him particularly happy.

 

+++

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

A dream. It was just a bloody _dream_. The images had all simply been too surreal to reflect the truth. John sat on his bed, his elbows propped on his knees, his head lowered to his chest. His right leg bounced nervously and his fingers wandered shakily across his phone screen. A dream, he kept repeated to himself, not willing to admit that the weird images might be in synch with the emotions they triggered in him. Nothing in the world would have ever made him kiss Greg. It simply didn't make any sense. _Nothing in the world_...

A pounding pain on the back right side of his head made its presence known. One more reminder crashing into his consciousness with implacable claws and teeth, scratching and biting as it rattled at emotions he was unwilling to bring to the surface.

The illusion of desert sand beneath his feet, of the sun's heat on his back, made his periphery vision go fuzzy, the walls melt and drop like dust motes to the floor. Daylight blinded him, brighter than anything London had to offer, enveloping him in a world of red and yellow hues. Dried grass stalks, black holes in sand-coloured walls. Here and there a colourful cloth or smeared boards haphazardly covering doorways. Wind blew through the ruins, howling in his ears, much louder than it really was. All his senses on high alert, stretched to the limit. The fear of being discovered. By rebels or comrades-in-arms. Nervous glances over the crumbling remains of walls that barely served to screen off their hiding place. Heartbeats in time with friction on skin. Cursing breaths. Damp warmth. He turned his eyes upward to filter out the surroundings. To really be present in the here and now, just for a moment, to truly allow what was happening to happen. To let go and grip his counterpart's short, sweat-damp hair. An involuntary muscle spasm. The gnawing conflict between desire and guilt.

The clatter of his phone hitting the floor tore him out of his daydream. He leaned over to pick it up, put it onto his nightstand, and got up to go to the en suite bathroom. He looked grumpily in the mirror, registering the dark circles under his eyes and the off-putting expression on the face of the man looking back at him. The bruise on his chin wasn't fully healed yet, and the green-blue discolouration was clearly visible beneath his stubble. He turned on the cold water, washed his face, and stuck his head under the cool stream. The cold stimulated his nerve endings, and he immediately felt himself become more awake, the images from his dreams and memories receding. After he'd showered and cleaned his teeth, he went back into his room and took a t-shirt out of the dresser and a beige button-down out of the wardrobe.

 _There is no reason to think about it any more_. _It was nothing more than a meaningless moment under the influence of alcohol. As for the rest... Sherlock... he would never do something like that._ _I'm just imagining things_ , John thought to himself as he watched himself buttoning his shirt in the mirror. He only worked half-days on Fridays, so he'd be back home by early that afternoon.

He went down to the ground floor, fetched the newspaper that Mrs Hudson had left for them on the side table, and finally went back up to the kitchen on the first floor. He tossed the paper onto the kitchen table, put water on for his morning tea, and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. From the refrigerator, he took a jar of jam that stood next to a canning jar containing a strange, fleshy substance. John regarded the contents with disgust but decided he didn't want to know too exactly whether they were human remains or not. When the water boiled, he poured it into the teapot he'd prepared with a breakfast tea blend, spread the jam on his toast, and sat down at the table to read the paper.

He'd just finished his tea when he heard Sherlock emerge from his room and disappear into the bathroom. Shortly thereafter, he heard the shower running. A glance at the kitchen clock told him he'd have to hurry if he didn't want to be late to the clinic. He'd actually wanted to ask his flatmate whether there was a case on today and he might count on spending the afternoon with him. But there was no time for that. He set a cup for Sherlock next to the teapot, folded the newspaper and laid it alongside, and left the flat to head to work. As he did so, he tried to convince himself insistently that he wasn't running away to avoid Sherlock.

The first patients were already waiting in the Department of Internal Medicine at St Bartholomew's Hospital when John arrived. He greeted the receptionist cheerfully, threw on a white lab coat, and took the first three patient files with him to the consulting room. It was good to be occupied with work all morning and not have any opportunity to worry about the events of the last few days. He and Sherlock hadn't talked about the idiotic attempt to set him up, but John was more than willing to simply sweep the entire affair under the rug and never mention it again. It seemed like the best course of action to keep his potential love life and his flatmate as far apart as possible anyway.

He hadn't heard anything from Greg either, but assumed that the Detective Inspector was busy with his own work and probably simply hadn't had time to continue with his new hobby. Maybe they would run into each other that evening at _Smax_ , as John planned to go there if no new cases for him and Sherlock cropped up during the day.

During his lunch break, John bought two cups of coffee and brought the second one to his friend Mike Stamford, who was busy tutoring a student. John waited patiently until he was done and had dismissed the student.

"Coffee?" he offered, holding the cup out to his friend.

Mike smiled amiably and took the proffered drink with a word of thanks. They exchanged a few superficial words about the latest happenings, chatted about the students Mike was teaching, and recalled the times when they had been in school there. John soon felt a sense of unease coming over him. As much as he liked Mike as a friend, he couldn't help feeling that those anecdotes about the old days cast him in a false light. In a certain way, the John whom Mike had met back then during their uni days was nothing like the man standing before him today. Ever since he'd been living with Sherlock, the lethargy that had trapped John following his return to London had transformed into a physical and spiritual restlessness. Working with Sherlock provided him with a satisfactory balance, albeit sometimes not frequently enough to occupy him over the long run. He knew Sherlock had a similar problem, only to a much greater degree. Maybe, he mused, he had caught it from his flatmate, in a certain way. Sherlock's inability to deal with boredom had led not only to absurd experiments in the kitchen on Baker Street, but also to various holes in the wall, singed furnishings, and a chaos that was impossible to rein in.

_Maybe a relationship would distract Sherlock enough for him not to dismantle his surroundings piece by piece? How had it been with that..._

"John? Hey, John, are you listening?" Mike asked, startling John out of his thoughts.

"S-sorry... I... didn't sleep very well. I think I'd better head home and lie down a bit. See you next week!" With that, he drained the rest of his coffee, stood up, and raised his hand once more to say good-bye before returning to his office to get his jacket before leaving the hospital.

He tried to keep his facial expression neutral, but his insides were churning. He'd started thinking about Sherlock and his past relationships again. It nagged at him that Sherlock might even be capable of romantic feelings, despite the fact that it was more than logical; after all, he was only human, just like everyone else. Someone with Sherlock's looks and charisma couldn't possibly be asexual, no matter how much his behaviour might proclaim it. John slapped a hand over his face, drawing puzzled looks from passers-by.

_Why?! Why can't I just ignore the topic? It's absolutely none of my business!_

Back at the flat on Baker Street, John collapsed onto the couch with a sigh and rubbed his forehead. Sherlock was sitting at the desk, letting his fingers glide over the touchpad of his laptop.

"Rough day?" he asked without looking up. John grunted his agreement. "You need a distraction," Sherlock stated, and stood up. He was still wearing his dressing gown, and his curls were all over the place, indicating that he hadn't left the flat yet. "We could get something to eat..."

"I guess that means the fridge is empty and you haven't eaten anything yet today?" John asked, knowing that Sherlock preferred to eat out rather than go shopping. That task usually fell to John.

"I'll need a few minutes to change..." Sherlock replied rather than answering the question.

"Sorry, I've already eaten and I have other plans for tonight."

Silence reigned for a moment, during which John could virtually hear Sherlock going through all the options for a Friday evening activity in order to pinpoint which plans John preferred to Sherlock's company.

"A date," Sherlock decided, crossing his arms.

John sighed and stood up, running a hand through his blond hair. "No, not a date. Just... I'm meeting a couple of friends."

Sherlock suddenly stepped closer to John, who automatically moved away, leaning back as far as he could. Sherlock tilted his head to one side and looked John directly in the eye, which led to a lump developing in John's throat. The sudden closeness to his flatmate hit him like a bolt of lightning, and the images from his dreams flooded his mind. Images of the silhouette that had brought him to bed. Except it was Sherlock right in front of him now, not some faceless figure. His stomach clenched with the same tingling sensation that arose when he recalled their lips touching, their tongues meeting, the heat of their mouths connecting. With a flutter of panic, he pushed Sherlock away, stood up, and took several steps in the other direction. He stopped with his back turned when Sherlock started speaking.

"It wasn't a question. It was an invitation."

All the strength seemed to drain out of John's limbs. His knees wobbled and goose pimples spread across the back of his neck and down his back. It was as if he were a cymbal that had been struck. His body hummed and vibrated as Sherlock's words echoed in his head.

_A... date...?_

He felt Sherlock's eyes on the back of his neck and knew he was waiting for a response. Was he serious? Did Sherlock really think John might be interested in a date with him? Just because he'd witnessed the incident with Greg? Was he drawing premature conclusions from a scene taken out of context? The strange feeling that John had no name for turned into fury. He huffed angrily, turned to Sherlock, and glared at him.

"Spare me your jokes!" he thundered, then left the living room and went upstairs to the second floor. He missed seeing the smirk that passed across Sherlock's lips.

 

*****

 

The changing room at _Smax_ was full. That wasn't unusual for a Friday evening. Many of the members preferred to round out their week here, then go for a drink or celebrate the evening in some other manner. John didn't feel like celebrating. He felt much more like making his brain shut up and feeling the burn in his muscles when he fell into bed, completely exhausted – hopefully freed of any more reveries. He'd just put on his t-shirt when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Hey, John. Great to see you here too!" Greg had popped up behind him. He was wearing his black tracksuit bottoms again, but hadn't put a shirt on yet. He gave John a friendly smile as usual, but the stress of the past week was written all over his face.

"Hi," John said curtly, letting his gaze trail over the other man's upper body as he turned his head away. Greg was in better shape than he'd thought, but then it was hard to tell under the shirts and jackets he normally wore. Not that John paid any special attention to things like that...

"Are we going to go a round today? I've had a chance to bone up a bit this week," Greg said with a winning grin. John closed the locker and headed for the door leading into the main hall.

"We'll see. I still owe someone a re-match!" He said the last part a little louder, obviously not directed at Greg. He glanced over at Phil, who looked up as he tied his trainers.

"You asked for it, mate. I've been looking forward to it all week!" Phil countered, pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand.

In the main hall, John picked up one of the skipping ropes as usual and started warming up. Greg chose the rowing machine in the back of the hall. John couldn't really say why he was ignoring Greg. After they'd talked things out at the park, there wasn't any reason for it, and yet at the moment he wanted to distance himself from this whole thing that had been grating on his nerves for days now. He didn't know whether Greg was taking the hint or not, but that didn't matter at the moment.

After a few minutes, John felt warmed up enough and pulled on his sparring gloves. He went over to Phil, who was standing next to a punching bag, working it over with his fists.

"I hope you haven't painted my face on there, otherwise it looks like I'm in for a real pounding," John kidded, holding out his gloved fist toward Phil. Phil returned the greeting by tapping his own fist against John's glove. "The ring's free now. Should we take advantage of it?"

Phil nodded, and they went over together, climbed through the ropes, and greeted the club member who was going to play referee for them. A woman in her early forties who worked in a supermarket, as far as John knew, but he couldn't remember her name.

"Right, lads, helmets on then. It's hopping tonight so we're doing three times three-minute rounds. Micki's on the timer. Keep it fair and clean!"

The two opponents nodded to her. John checked the sit of his helmet and gloves again and slid his mouth guard in between his teeth. He rolled his head a few times to loosen up his neck and shoulders, jumped up and down to get a feel for the flooring, and took deep breaths to lower his pulse. He was familiar with Phil and his speed by now, and he'd resolved to put up a better fight this time than he had before. Phil wasn't going to exercise any undue caution since he'd warned John after their last match only to show up when he was in shape and sober.

As soon as referee's _Go!_ sounded, Phil shot forward without waiting and let loose on John with a series of blows. It was only to be expected that Phil wouldn't hang back for long analysing his opponent this time; after all, he'd want to get the most out of the three-minute limit and put his adversary out of commission as quickly as possible. But John was massively better prepared this time too. His instincts took over for most of his movements. He blocked the straight shots, ducked underneath the hooks, and made use of targeted kicks to make up for the height difference. The first round flew by with neither of the two able to take away a decisive win.

Breathing hard, John retreated to his side of the ring, crouched down, then extended his legs to stretch them out a little. He glanced over at Phil, who was hopping restlessly on the balls of his feet, waiting impatiently for the match to continue.

Phil opened the second round as explosively as the first. The blows hammered mercilessly against John's defences, but this time with the addition of kicks from his feet and knees in order to force John to defend a larger area, giving him less chance to prepare for the attacks. One knee kick ended with John blocking it with his lower arm. He intended to use Phil's pullback to knock him off his feet, so he spread his arms, only to realise his error at the same moment. Instead of lowering his leg, Phil had drawn his knee up to his chest, and now sent his foot shooting forward, hitting John in the stomach and catapulting him backwards. Before John could roll to the side, Phil was standing over him and landed one more blow that decided the round in his favour. John slammed his palms on the floor, furious, lifted his feet and swung himself up to standing.

"Tired yet, John?" Phil teased him with a grin.

"Just you wait..."

"I don't have all day!"

John bounced on the balls of his feet, his hands hanging down on either side, rather than raising his fists. The referee gave him a questioning look and he nodded curtly. She gave the signal to start, and the two fighters leapt for each other. Just before contact occurred, John ducked down and grabbed Phil's left leg, yanked it up, and wrapped both hands around it. Phil wasn't about to let himself get knocked off balance so easily, however, so John swivelled around until his shoulder was pressed up inside his opponent's knee in order to push him down to the floor. Phil had to catch himself with both hands, his leg still firmly in John's grip. He nimbly used his momentum to right himself on his single leg, hoping to unbalance John in the process. But John was ready for him, lifted the leg in his hands even higher, and swept Phil's other leg away with his foot, making him fall onto his side. John followed up with a direct hit for the point.

Since the round was still going, Phil struggled quickly to his feet and immediately went on the offensive again. He grabbed John's triceps and leaned into him. John did the same, but pulled Phil towards himself instead, sidestepped, let go, and ducked down to dig into the backs of Phil's knees and stick his head up under Phil's armpit. Then he took two or three steps forward, leaned into the other man's body with his full weight, and made him fall over again. Another point for John.

Phil got to his feet with sparks shooting from his eyes and lunged for John. He landed a couple of direct hits to John's defences, feinting a left hook only to hit John's shoulder instead. John groaned in pain as the blow zinged through his body like a lightning strike, and in his mind he heard the echo of the shot that had nearly cost him his life. His shoulder buzzed like a swarm of bees, and he saw the triumphant glint in his opponent's eyes. It was obvious it had been intentional. Not many knew that particular weak spot and targeted it so directly to knock John off balance. For a fraction of a second, his eyes slid over to Micki, who was watching the clock and already starting to raise his hand to whistle an end to the round any second.

Making a quick decision, John sprang at Phil and set up for a roundhouse. As expected, Phil lowered his arms to ward him off, leaving his head unprotected. John was only faking the kick, though, instead lifting his knee and whipping his foot out toward the other side of Phil's head, where the flat of his sole came into contact with the helmet. The whistle sounded almost at the same time.

Phil shook his head, dazed. Breathing hard, both men tapped their gloves together in acknowledgment and congratulated each other on a good fight. Phil took out his mouth guard and leaned forward a bit toward John, resting one hand on his smarting left shoulder.

"Good fight! That looked a lot better than last time..." he confided, and squeezed down. John suppressed a gasp and shot daggers at the other man with his eyes. But Phil just grinned and turned away.

Aggravated, John ground his teeth and went to the ropes, where he saw Greg standing, apparently having watched the fight. Greg clapped and whistled appreciatively.

"That was bloody fantastic! Very impressive!"

John was briefly reminded of Sherlock and how much he liked receiving praise from John, and had to smile.

"Ta, wasn't bad," he replied, not mentioning the throbbing in his shoulder. "Are you up now? I'd like to rest for a few minutes first, then we can try a round."

"Yeah, sure!" Greg said enthusiastically and ran off to fetch his sparring gloves. John would have preferred to get an ice pack to put on his shoulder, but he'd do it later. Since Greg hadn't been in the club very long, he assumed the fight wouldn't be too difficult. Of course he shouldn't underestimate the other man. After all, Greg was a trained police officer who had quite a bit of experience under his belt when it came to combat. On the other hand, he'd said he hadn't seen much action in his career over the past few years, and that was in fact the reason he'd come to _Smax_. John decided to watch him fight a round first to avoid any nasty surprises. One injured shoulder was enough.

He stood ringside with a bottle of water and watched Greg talk to the referee and Micki. They seemed to be looking for an appropriate opponent for Greg, as they pointed to various members and considered whom they might approach. But no one seemed to be free at the moment. John rolled his eyes, took another sip, and set the bottle down on the ground. Then he climbed back into the ring. He was warmed up already anyway, so it wouldn't make that much of a difference whether he faced off against Greg now or in ten minutes.

"I'm free," he said to the other three.

"Are you sure?" Greg asked, and John nodded.

"All right then, the pair of you, prepare yourselves," the referee said.

John put his helmet back on and slid the mouth guard between his teeth. As usual, he checked whether everything was in the correct position, and watched as Greg tightened the chin strap of his helmet. He tried to estimate approximately how heavy Greg was in order to gauge how much power he packed in his punch. The only other reference he had was the first trial match he'd watched. At the time, Greg's opponent had been hit by a fairly solid left, but that wasn't enough information on its own in order to be able to correctly appraise the other man.

They stood opposite each other and good-humouredly thumped their fists together. Just then, John took note of the other man's scent and felt a spontaneous tingling run through him. He shook himself automatically in order to get rid of the strange sensation, and Greg gave him a puzzled look.

"Everything okay?" he asked with something close to concern, leaning further forward to look into John's eyes.

John nodded, unsettled, turning away to make it impossible to see from his expression all the unusual feelings building up inside him. He took a couple of deep breaths, collected himself, and turned back around to give his okay to start the fight. The referee then gave the signal to start, and withdrew.

They started dancing around each other, but John knew he didn't have much time to decide the fight in his favour. He tested the waters with a couple of punch-and-kick combos, but Greg had no problem deflecting them and went on to test his opponent's defences himself.

John could feel the power behind the policeman's punches, but he was fairly certain Greg was still holding back. Well, he would just have to draw him out in that case. After all, they were both here to fight, not to waltz! He caught Greg's next punch and shoved his arm down, whereupon Greg reached for John's elbow to pull him in. But John was faster, inserting his arm under Greg's as if to hug him, so that his hand landed on the other man's shoulder blade; he let himself fall backwards and dragged Greg with him to the ground. Using the momentum of the fall, he heaved the other man over him and away, swung up to his knees and pinned Greg's arm. He faked a punch to the policeman's face, only to pull back at the last moment.

Greg blinked, surprised that the blow hadn't landed. His opponent's hesitation gave him an opening to grab John around the waist and roll him to the side. A wrestling match ensued in which both men tried to gain the upper hand, until they were whistled off and separated in a draw.

"John, there are no points for pulled punches!" the referee reminded him with an amused undertone.

"Yeah, yeah, I know..." John grumbled, shaking his arms to loosen them up. His heart was racing just a tick too fast, and he tried to calm himself. Why had he held back? Because he knew Greg? Because they worked together? Because he hadn't wanted to hurt him? Whatever the reason was, scruples in hand-to-hand combat would inevitably lead to defeat if he didn't pull himself together.

"I'm not made of glass, John, no false modesty!" was Greg's comment on the first round. John turned toward him and lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile.

"Your choice, but don't come crying to me afterwards..."

"Big talk," Greg taunted him, banging his fists together. The referee started the second round, and this time John didn't hold back. He doled out direct hits, backed Greg into the corner, batted away Greg's few attempts to penetrate his defences with ease, and finally fought his way in close enough to the policeman to wrap his arms around his waist and throw him off his feet. With the size difference, wrestling grips were still the best way to force his opponents to their knees. This time he followed up with two quick punches.

"Come on, Greg... is that all they teach you at the Yard? You can do better than that!" John danced on the balls of his feet with a challenging grin. Greg leapt to his feet, spurred onward, and was about to launch an attack when they were whistled off.

"Okay, no more kid gloves. You can have it now!"

The third round had barely started before John felt a difference to the previous two. Greg seemed to have dropped any concerns he might have had and attacked him as if they were strangers, as if they had no connection to each other that might prevent them from hurting each other. The blows were harder, more carefully placed, and intended to win the round – with more than one point, if possible. John felt the full force of each hit, and enjoyed the sensation humming through his bones. Of course he'd be cursing Greg in the morning, but the hell with it – the only thing that counted was the here and now, and that he felt as alive as he seldom did.

Greg ducked away from a punch, pivoted on his haunches, and rammed his elbow into John's stomach. John doubled over for a moment, gasping and biting hard into his mouth guard. Before he knew it, Greg stood diagonally behind him on the right, wrapped an arm around his neck, and put him into a headlock. But John reacted with great presence of mind, thrusting his right arm over Greg's shoulder and pushing his face to the side, landing a punch to the other man's chest, and a moment later he was free. Just as he wanted to increase the distance between them, Greg snagged his knee, levered his other leg off-balance and toppled John to the ground. Moments later, Greg was sitting on his stomach and landed a punch against his helmet.

Rattled, John lifted his hands protectively in front of his face. At first, he wanted to follow his instinct to turn over to evade the blows, but he kept his wits in time, realising he wouldn't be able to free himself out of that position. Instead, he kept his arms up, twisted his hips as far as he could to one side, and got his right foot underneath Greg's right calf. He used their crossed legs to lever the other man to the side and roll out from underneath him, then grabbed Greg's arm and twisted it up behind his back. John slid around Greg with alacrity. However, in order not to offer him the same escape route he'd just used, he pressed the policeman's face to the floor and held him there.

Greg writhed in his grip, and John increased the pressure on his pinned wrist, which elicited a pained groan from Greg. A sound that set everything in John on edge. The hairs on his arms stood up and a rather erotic tingling spread through his body, flowing inexorably into his loins. His breath caught. As if being hunted, his gaze skimmed the nape of the other man's neck. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and it was only with the greatest effort that he was able to prevent himself from bending over and sinking his teeth into Greg's skin.

It wasn't until that moment that he became aware he was pressing himself into Greg's thigh in order to keep him in position, and that it must be fairly obvious to the other man that he was aroused. Heat shot into John's face, and he let go of Greg, jumped up, and quickly headed for the ropes. The end-of-round whistle sounded as he went, and the referee called both men to come over so that she could issue the results, but John didn't pause in his flight. He slipped through the ropes and went straight to the changing room.

"Hey, John!" she called after him, but he didn't hear her.

"It's all right," Greg said instead, "it's pretty obvious that he... won."

 

+++

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John fumbled with the latch on his locker in _Smax_ 's changing room. His heart was pumping blood and adrenaline through his veins like mad, and his head was buzzing like a radio without reception. His hands shook with shame and humiliation as well as because his body was still electrified from his fights with Phil and Greg. There were only two other club members in the room, but they weren't paying any attention to him and didn't register his agitation. John still wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. He slipped out of his shoes, shoved his gym shorts down his legs, and quickly pulled his jeans on. As he was doing up the flies, his ear twitched instinctively when he heard the creak of the door that led out to the main hall opening and closing.

He didn't turn around to check who had come in. Instead, he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and tossed it into his open bag. Once he'd put on and buttoned his beige button-down, he stuffed his sweaty sports things into his bag, threw his jacket in too, and hurried out. As he did so, he saw that it wasn't Greg who had come into the changing room, but another club member who was getting changed without giving John a second look. _Why should Greg have come after me anyway?_ he chided himself.

There were still quite a few club members in the main hall. Both boxing rings were already occupied by new combatants, but he couldn't see Greg from this angle. He kept to the edge of the room to get to the exit, pushed open the outside door, and went out into the street. Relieved, he inhaled the evening air, which had the pleasant effect of cooling the sweat on his face.

He walked quickly to the nearest large street and hailed the next best taxi, got in, and gave the driver his address. No sooner had the car pulled into traffic than John collapsed in on himself. His elbows propped on his knees and his face buried in his hands, he kept repeating the same syllable in his head: _No, no, no, no, no!_ How had that happened? The match with Greg had been more evenly balanced than he'd expected, and the triumph of having finally beaten him in the third round had been heady. But that alone wasn't what had suddenly awakened an untameable lust in him. Wrestling for the upper hand, the rough hands on his body trying to dispatch him to the floor, and most of all that beguiling smell... along with the brief sound Greg had made when John twisted his arm behind his back. The thought of it alone was enough to re-ignite the tingling in his groin.

He exhaled loudly and closed his eyes to focus, but the images of the match kept getting in the way and preventing him from relaxing. When the taxi stopped on Baker Street, he paid and got out. He went inside and up the stairs, glancing into the living room to check whether Sherlock was there, and if so, where. Not hearing anything, John went upstairs to his room, tossed his gym bag carelessly down in front of his dresser, and peeled out of his clothes, which he dropped next to the bag. Then he went directly into the bathroom and got under the shower, turned the taps on, and let the lukewarm water run over his head. He turned the hot water off completely for a few seconds, leaving only the cold water running, and felt all of his pores contract, his body going into alarm mode and tensing up. He slowly turned the warm water back on, bit by bit, in order to adjust to the change in temperature, and gradually relaxed.

The thoughts in his head didn't go silent, but they drifted into the background, no longer dancing so intently behind his eyelids. In their place, he became aware of his strained muscles, still buzzing delightfully after the fights and re-awakening that unique feeling of being alive that made him love that pastime so much. After he'd washed himself, he turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his hips, and went back into his room to get dressed. Finally, he went down to the living room, glanced into the kitchen, and took a seat on the couch.

He turned on the television and dug his phone out of his trouser pocket, checking the inbox for any new messages. Sherlock hadn't left a message for him. That wasn't necessarily unusual, but John had no idea what kind of mood Sherlock was in at the moment. Every time their paths crossed, their attempts at communication fell short. John still wasn't sure whether Sherlock had meant the invitation to go on a date seriously, or as a joke. Unfortunately, that was impossible to determine when it came to his flatmate. At least, it was difficult for John to believe that Sherlock had any kind of romantic interest in other people.

Greg had assured him he did, but John still couldn't imagine Sherlock in a relationship. Even less in a relationship with another man. Victor Trevor... what kind of person had he been? Pensively, John let his gaze wander over the various items around the flat. Did Sherlock have information about Victor stored somewhere? He got up and went over to the bookshelves, scanning the titles, and randomly pulled out a couple of books to check whether anything was stuck inside, but nothing turned up.

His eye fell on the human skull resting on the mantelpiece, watching over the room with its empty eye sockets. He picked it up, turned it over, and examined it from all sides, but found nothing remarkable. Mollified, John replaced the skull in its usual place. He thought hard for a moment, scratching the back of his head as he went through all the potential hiding places in the flat. When it came to information that Sherlock didn't want to share with other people, he was most likely to keep it in his room, John finally decided, and went through the kitchen to the hall that brought him to stand in front of his flatmate's door.

He knocked cautiously, then listened. He couldn't be entirely certain that Sherlock wasn't in the flat, but as there was no reaction to his knock, he felt more assured of his assumption. He pushed down on the handle and cracked the door open, peering into the dark room.

"Sherlock?"

When there was no response, he opened the door all the way and turned on the light. He entered the room hesitantly, looking around and considering where he might find information. He realised that Sherlock would probably notice if John rummaged through his things and didn't leave everything exactly as he'd found them. Should he really risk it and chance ending up in the unpleasant situation of having to explain to Sherlock what in the world he was doing in his room? On the other hand, if he just opened the drawers and didn't touch anything inside, it was impossible that he would be found out – or so he tried to convince himself, stepping closer to the nightstand on the left side of the bed. He wiped his hands nervously on his trousers, reached for the knob on the drawer, and pulled it open.

Alongside two identical police badges – clearly belonging to Greg – the drawer contained a box of nicotine patches, a lighter, a couple of wadded-up notes, a serviette, and a key. John also spotted a pen that looked familiar. He took it out and turned it over in his hand. _This is mine_... John remembered using this pen for quite a while, only to find it had gone missing one day. He'd assumed it had simply gone missing in the general mess around the flat, and hadn't given it a second thought. The fact that Sherlock was keeping it in here didn't surprise him much, however. His flatmate had probably taken it without thinking and kept it to jot down notes or ideas whenever he was in his bedroom. The crumpled notes were sufficient evidence of that.

John put the pen back in the exact same position as before, then picked up one of the notes and carefully unfolded it. It was an old shopping list that John had written some time ago. As far as he could tell, it hadn't even been for Sherlock – he never went shopping anyway, and if he did, he wouldn't need a written list. As to why he hadn't simply thrown out the old scrap of paper... it was no wonder they were slowly but surely drowning in chaos.

The serviette had a grapevine pattern printed on it along with some smeared, dried-out tomato sauce. It must be from Angelo's restaurant, which also didn't make sense for Sherlock to keep it in here. John's fingers itched to simply clear out all the rubbish and put it in the bin, but then it would be ridiculous to try and pretend he wasn't snooping around in Sherlock's things.

John couldn't identify the key. It didn't appear to belong to Baker Street. It was a normal key for a barrel-lock, with the number 4 etched into it. After John had returned everything to its place, he carefully closed the drawer, making sure not to jiggle anything with the movement. Next, he went to Sherlock's dresser and peeked into all of the various drawers, but wasn't able to find anything without reaching in between the clothes. He judged that to be too risky, so he left it. Sighing, he turned around in a circle, scanning the furnishings one more time, but decided there was no sense in continuing if he didn't want to be discovered.

He went out into the hall, closed the door behind himself, and sat back down on the couch in the living room. He watched television for a while, scrolling aimlessly through his contact list at the same time. As it was still early in the evening, he considered whether to ask one of his female acquaintances on a date. Maybe that would also help him to finally get rid of all these useless thoughts. He didn't need to prove himself to anyone, but maybe it would put an end to all the comments about his sexuality once and for all if he were seen in female company more often. His thumb hovered over a name and number he hadn't rung in quite a while. Should he try it?

Just then he heard the downstairs door slam shut. Since Mrs Hudson was always very careful to tiptoe around as much as possible, it could only be Sherlock. John got up and went down the stairs to check on his flatmate, because to judge by the sound of it, something seemed to be wrong. He could also take the opportunity to ask Sherlock if they should go get something to eat together, no pressure, just like they used to. Without the burdensome word _date_ in their ears.

But halfway there, John stopped in his tracks, frozen. The scene that had played out just a few short days ago seemed to be repeating itself. With the roles reversed. While John stood there on the landing, Sherlock was leaning up against the wall of the entryway with a man wrapped around him and kissing him passionately.

John felt as if he'd run straight into a brick wall. The scene simply didn't make any sense. His brain refused to take in and process the images being presented to it. He still hadn't been fully able to digest the fact that Sherlock was interested in men, nor had he investigated whether Sherlock had kissed him or whether that had been a figment of his imagination.

And now this.

John had no idea who the man was who was currently thrusting his tongue hungrily into Sherlock's mouth. He was about as tall as Sherlock, with dark blond hair. He had a buzz cut in the back, and the longer hair on top of his head was styled in a way that made it look as if a storm had blown through it. His shoulders were broader than Sherlock's, and overall he seemed to be more powerful. There was something roguish about him that John wasn't quite sure how to pin down. Naturally, the black leather jacket and the ripped jeans contributed to that impression. Annoyed, John watched the stranger run his hand almost tenderly down Sherlock's face, over his prominent cheekbones and the line of his jaw down to his neck. Then he suddenly strengthened his grip and pressed Sherlock roughly back against the wall. His hand firmly around Sherlock's neck, he kissed him again.

Just as John wanted to intervene – since he couldn't believe everything was on the up and up – Sherlock let out a lust-filled gasp, tilted his head slightly to one side, and let the other man bite his neck. The stranger sucked and nibbled relentlessly on the sensitive skin, eliciting sounds from Sherlock that John would never have dreamed possible. The two remained glued to each other for a few more seconds, until Sherlock gently pushed the other man aside, took his hand, and went up the stairs with him. As he passed by John, he gave him a seductive side-long glance.

"Good night... John," Sherlock whispered, stepping past his flatmate. The unknown man merely grinned at him and winked knowingly.

John released the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. He heard loud and clear as the door to Sherlock's room closed. Then it was quiet. John swallowed hard. Whatever that had been about, it was too much. With a strange tingling in his legs, he went back to the living room, got his phone and put it in his trouser pocket, slipped into his jacket, and beat a hasty retreat.

 

*****

 

The scent of freshly brewed coffee woke John the next morning. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. They promptly started burning when he opened them only to be tortured by the light streaming in through the window. He blinked several times and flung back the woollen blanket he'd rolled himself up in. He haphazardly straightened his shirt and trousers, sat up, and ran both hands over his creased face. The memories of the previous night immediately reappeared, along with the reason he'd decided not to sleep at Baker Street. He sighed.

_What's the point of all this crap anyway? As if I had to run away... It's none of my business who Sherlock shags..._

"Good morning, John," trilled Sarah's cheerful voice as she came into the living room with two cups of coffee. Sarah Sawyer, John's first girlfriend after his return from Afghanistan – now entirely platonic – had granted him access to her flat last night despite the late hour and let him spend the night on her couch after he'd briefly explained that he couldn't go home. Fortunately, she hadn't asked any further questions about what had happened; she'd just set out a pillow and a blanket for him, kind as she was, and then quickly gone to bed herself.

"Good morning, Sarah, thanks," John answered, accepting the cup and sipping from it right away.

Sarah asked whether he'd slept well, and he nodded wearily. He actually hadn't slept before the first rays of dawn had lightened the sky. He'd lain awake for hours thinking – not precisely about what he'd seen, but about why the whole thing upset him so much. Sherlock hadn't been involved in a relationship for several years, apparently, everyone around him having assumed he had no interest in sexual matters, and now John, as his best friend, was supposed to be happy for him that things had changed. If Sherlock was happy, then he – John – should be happy too. He still couldn't help wondering who the guy was that Sherlock had brought home, and what they'd been doing all night... no, he didn't want to pursue that line of thought any further.

John had also pondered his reaction to Greg. Greg was a good bloke, and who knows what they'd talked about in the bar that night that might have led to them snogging. Maybe it had been a bet? Maybe Greg had wanted to wind him up, provoke him, or had called him a coward... Greg hadn't explained the situation in much detail. The only thing John knew was that they'd kissed for a while, and that Greg apparently hadn't had anything against it. The notion caused a strange tingling in John's stomach. Greg had said he hadn't been as drunk as John. Had he taken advantage of the situation? Greg didn't seem like the kind of person who would do something like that, and yet... how well did he know the Detective Inspector after all?

"John? Are you listening to me?"

Startled, John blinked at Sarah. "What? Oh, s--sorry... what did you say?"

The brunette smiled weakly and put her hands on her hips. "I asked whether you'd also like a piece of toast."

"Yes, please..."

Sarah went into the kitchen. John followed her, draining his coffee cup on the way.

"So, John, I don't know what happened between the two of you, but I'm sure things will get straightened out soon. You and Sherlock... you belong together," she said, putting two slices of bread into the toaster.

John could barely restrain himself from spitting out the rest of the coffee, instead swallowing it the wrong way. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the tea towel Sarah handed him.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" he asked with an incredulous expression.

Sarah rolled her eyes and poured him some more coffee, fetched the milk from the refrigerator, and poured some in both of their cups.

"Are we still stuck on that? Come on, John... No, no," she said, raising her hands in a calming gesture when she saw him start to protest. "You're going to listen to me for once. I know you're _not_ gay. We were together long enough, and you've proven it often enough. _But_..." She paused dramatically, took a sip, and gave John a serious look while he glared at her. "I think people generally have the... _capacity_ to be attracted to both sexes. Many don't act on it because of how they were raised. There's no shame in being attracted to someone of the same gender, though. So what's the problem? That people might call you gay? So what? You're worrying too much about labels, John. It doesn't matter what someone else might call you. What's important is what you _feel_ , and if you and Sherlock..."

"There is no me and Sherlock," John finally interrupted. "You've got it all wrong, Sarah."

Sarah sighed and tilted her head to one side, which she always did when someone didn't agree with her opinion. She nodded indulgently, crossing her arms. "He still hasn't told you, has he? Or are you just too stubborn to accept it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, John... a blind man could see that Sherlock's in love with you. Although maybe he doesn't want to admit it, not even to himself, just like you don't want to admit that love isn't necessarily bound to a person's gender. What I don't understand is how you can look your sister in the eye with an attitude like that."

"Leave Harry out of it..."

"But why? Harry's a lesbian, was even married, and you've never said anything negative about it, at least not in my presence. I don't see what would be so bad if you were in the same position as her."

The toaster spit out the toasted bread, and Sarah took some jam out of the refrigerator, spread a generous portion onto one of the pieces of toast, and passed it to John. He bit into it gloomily, chewing on autopilot. He only ate half of it, then put the rest onto a plate and rinsed the crumbs down with some more coffee.

"Do you have any idea how our parents reacted?" he asked flatly, giving Sarah a grim look. "The small-mindedness and animosity Harry had to deal with? Her relationship with our mother was reduced to almost nil, they only spoke to each other when there was no other choice. The whole time, she acted as if she had accepted Harry and Clara, but it was always obvious that wasn't true. And our father... as far as I know, he never spoke another word to Harry after the bomb went off. He simply erased her from his life. Naturally, neither of them came to the wedding. When I went off to Afghanistan, Harry was already drinking so much I wasn't sure I'd ever see her alive again. That's... I..." John paused for another sip of coffee before he continued. "I don't know if I could live with something like that..."

Sarah watched her friend pensively from the side. "So all of that's the reason why you're closing yourself off to everything life has to offer? That seems pretty contradictory, John... But whatever. I've seen how Sherlock looks at you. He's not an easy one to read with his whole... manner, but the affection that he..."

"Stop it! Please..." John cut her off, turned away, and went back to the living room. He'd wanted to put some distance between himself and this whole thing, and now this... There simply seemed to be no escape. He slipped into his shoes, ran a hand through his hair to straighten it a bit, and put on his jacket.

"If you ever want to talk about it... I'm always ready to listen, John."

"Thanks..." he replied and gave her a quick hug. "Also for letting me sleep here."

Sarah nodded and put on a cheerful smile, ran a hand down John's cheek and walked him to the door. John went out onto the street and looked up at the bright blue sky. There wasn't a cloud to be seen, and the scent of springtime lay in the air. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he set out for home.

 

*****

 

John went up the stairs to the living room, tossed his jacket onto his armchair, and turned toward the kitchen. He paused for a moment when he saw Sherlock's guest sitting at the kitchen table. He was bent over the newspaper with his back to John, drinking tea. John bit down on his lip, straightened his shirt, and went into the kitchen.

"Good morning," he said as neutrally as possible.

The stranger turned toward him and smiled cheerfully. "Morning. I've made tea."

 _Hurrah!_ John thought waspishly, but forbore any comment, instead taking a cup to pour himself some tea. When he sat down at the table, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach, the other man held out his hand.

"You're John, right?" the visitor asked, rather than giving his name. John nodded, shaking the proffered hand firmly. He waited for the man to introduce himself, but apparently the article he was reading was so interesting that all courtesies flew right out the window.

"Erm... and you are...?" John eventually prompted.

"Oh right, sorry. My name's Victor. Pleasure."

John's drink went down the wrong way for the second time that morning, and he had to cough to clear his airway.

"V-Victor... Victor Trevor?"

The blond man grinned cheekily and nodded. "I thought you'd have heard of me." He took a sip and watched John over the rim of his cup. Tousled strands of hair fell across his forehead, his blue eyes amused. The ghost of a smile seemed to be permanently attached to the corners of his mouth, and overall he radiated something that fluctuated between arrogant and likable. A person you liked at first sight because he was open and approachable, and at the same time detested because you knew you'd never be one of his cool friends. A person who only needed to flash a smile in order for his worst enemy to fulfil his every desire. A person who seemed to suit Sherlock perfectly.

"What..." ... _brings you to London_ , John intended to ask, but he realised he honestly didn't know where Victor was from and whether he might in fact live in London. The city was big enough to live an entire life within its limits without ever meeting. He simply knew too little about Sherlock's relationship with this person, was only able to speculate, and would doubtless only make a fool of himself. Or at least it would become obvious that Sherlock hadn't let him in on this part of his life, and for some reason, John didn't want to reveal that off the cuff.

Victor gave him an inquisitive look, but John just shook his head, which elicited another smile from the other man. John hated him already. _Nonsense_ , he reproved himself. He had no reason for negative feelings toward a person he didn't know.

After a while, Victor folded the newspaper and laid it back on the table, drank the rest of his tea, and poured himself another cup, finally looking John directly in the eye.

"We met at college. Sherlock solved a case back then concerning my family. To be precise, it was my father's murder. As you can probably imagine, we bonded pretty strongly over the whole thing. We became good friends. More than that. But it didn't work out. We were probably together and broke up again about … half a dozen times before I left for Harvard and broke off all contact with him. After I graduated, I worked a while before coming back to the U.K. It was like old times but it didn't last long, and I left again. And, well, now I'm back!" Victor ended his monologue with a broad grin.

John's eyebrows drew together. It irked that Victor knew more about Sherlock than he did. Sherlock seemed to have a very … intimate relationship with this person, and it was only understandable that Victor was aware of John's ignorance. It was really rather obliging of him to present John with a summary of his and Sherlock's relationship without being asked...

"I see..." John muttered into his cup. Feeling suddenly restless, he stood up to boil water for more tea. He heard sounds coming from Sherlock's room, the bathroom door being pulled shut, and glanced at the clock. Almost ten a.m. Sherlock didn't normally sleep this long.

When Sherlock entered the kitchen yawning and wearing his blue dressing gown as usual, John immediately noted that he wasn't wearing a t-shirt underneath. Instead, a rather dark bruise decorated his collarbone, standing in such contrast to the paleness of his skin that it was impossible to overlook. John cleared his throat more loudly than necessary and wished him a good morning.

Sherlock nodded at John rather than answering, bent over to Victor, and kissed him. A long, intimate kiss. The cup almost fell out of John's hand, and he quickly looked away and set it down on the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Victor's hand slide up to the back of Sherlock's neck, drawing him closer, before Sherlock finally pulled away and sat down on the chair John had just vacated.

"I assume you've introduced yourselves?" Sherlock asked, checking the contents of the teapot before pouring the dregs into Victor's cup and drinking.

"Yes, Victor was so kind... Toast?" The question fell automatically from John's mouth, and he immediately wanted nothing more than to take it back; after all, Sherlock was more than capable of making his own breakfast.

"No thanks, not hungry..." Sherlock said without looking at John. Instead, he was watching Victor. A silent conversation was apparently taking place between them, one in which John was not included.

Despite his curiosity, he decided to go into the living room and leave the two of them alone. He secretly congratulated himself on not having spent the night at the flat. Who knows what he might have had to witness. He sat down in front of the television and turned on the news, but couldn't avoid hearing Sherlock announce he needed a shower.

"Are you coming?" he asked Victor, and moments later John heard the bathroom door close again. When the sound of the shower running reached his ears, he turned up the volume and tried to concentrate on the images, not to imagine the two men standing together under the warm stream of water soaping each other up.

 _This is working out splendidly_ , John thought dryly to himself.

 

+++

tbc


	5. Sentiment is a Chemical Defect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with Sherlock's and Victor's story. Since John didn't see much of their interactions, I thought it might be an interesting little excursion and might answer a question or two. It wasn't intended to be this long, but the beast took on a life of its own as usual. Have fun!
> 
> Next chapter will pick up with John again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

Lost in thought, his gaze wandered up to the clear, starry sky. The crescent moon hung from a solitary cloud. He twirled a cigarette between his fingers, undecided as to whether he should light it or not. He wanted it, no question, and no one was there who might have stopped him. Still, the muffled, reproving voice in the back of his head held him back.

"Need a light?"

A sense of calm spread through Sherlock when he heard the familiar voice. The blond man came closer, clicked open the lid of his lighter, and flicked it on. Sherlock automatically bent his arm to bring the cigarette up to the level of the little flame, but flinched back at the last moment before it caught.

"No," he said softly, meeting the flash in the other man's blue eyes.

The man took the cigarette from Sherlock, turned it around and stuck it between his lips, lit it, and took a drag.

"Then you won't mind..." He ended the sentence with a wink. A smile flitted across Sherlock's lips for a fraction of a second before he thrust his newly free hand into the pocket of his coat. Minutes seemed to pass during which they just watched each other, until the cigarette flipped away with a flick, the red glow at the tip like a miniature comet. It hissed as it went out in a puddle.

"So? Yours or mine?"

Sherlock snorted disdainfully, averting his eyes. He still couldn't help noticing how the other man tilted his head to one side and gave him an assessing look. Stripped him bare. There weren't many people who could do that. In fact, there was only one person who could simply see right through him, see further than his oh-so-enlightened brother or his empathetic flatmate. One person who could take him apart in his sleep like a soldier with his weapon. Whether he would ever put him back together again was another question. It was like playing with fire.

He exhaled resignedly, clenching his fingers around the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. "Let's go get a drink," he suggested and walked off without checking whether the other man was following. The man caught up, flipped up the collar of his leather jacket, and put his hands in his pockets too.

"Come on, Victor, don't make a fool of yourself," Sherlock scolded him.

"What?" No one would have bought the innocent tone of voice.

"You know precisely what..."

 

*****

 

The bar they ended up in wasn't really Victor's style. That was the reason Sherlock chose it. Surreal abstract art hung on the wall over the dark wooden panelling. The long plate-glass windows at the front provided a view of London's nightscape, while piano music and warm lighting invited the guests in the booths to converse with each other.

Sherlock sat diagonally across the purple, velvet-upholstered booth seat. One arm was casually draped across the back, while the fingers of his other hand glided around the rim of his wine glass. The top button of his black shirt seemed to have come undone, as if by accident, when he took off his coat, revealing a slice of pale skin. The dim light of the bar emphasised the contrast by a factor of multiples, making his quicksilver eyes look otherworldly as they peered out from amongst his tousled curls.

Victor leaned back on the other side of the circular seat, running his hands through his long fringe. He lowered his arms and folded his hands over his stomach, waiting for Sherlock to resume speaking. He knew from experience that it might take hours or even days if the mood struck him. That wouldn't be the case tonight, though, otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have had him come. Something was wrong, had unsettled him, put a dent in his otherwise unassailable armour.

"Your defences are down..." Victor mused out loud and smiled when he saw the flicker of fear in his friend's eyes.

"Whatever that's supposed to mean..." Sherlock answered, more statement than question. His eyes flickered rapidly back and forth between his fingers and the dark red liquid in his glass. He couldn't deny it. The cloak of unapproachability that he usually wore like a second skin didn't fit today. One reason was Victor's presence. He'd always been able to coax Sherlock out of his shell, put his thinking machine out of commission, barely by lifting a finger. That had always been a problem between them.

Sherlock had never been able to fully open up to Victor. Not after that first time, when they'd both sensed that there was more than just friendship between them. Neither of them could say exactly what. It was nothing like love, and yet it was more. Love was too trivial a word for what it was, and yet too powerful for what it wasn't. It hadn't taken long (although it seemed like an eternity in hindsight) for Sherlock to realise that he couldn't live with the chaos that other people called emotion. And yet he kept being drawn to Victor, who welcomed him with open arms every time.

He couldn't say exactly what was going on inside the other man. He'd never seen anyone – any other _couple_ – where one person acted so free and easy around the other, as if he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Victor was the one who had taught Sherlock that sexuality and love didn't necessarily need to have anything to do with each other, and that their kind of affection accommodated a freedom which _love_ – at least the way most people understood it – couldn't offer.

And so Sherlock had adjusted to _falling back_ on Victor whenever one of the rare opportunities arose when he longed for intimacy. And Victor had always been there, without exception, had walked right through all of his defensive walls as if they didn't even exist, had dived into Sherlock's soul and made his cold heart beat again. Just like the drugs: Victor stimulated his system by putting his head out of commission and appealing to the emotional side of him which he woefully neglected in his day-to-day existence. Which he couldn't engage without opening up to someone who wouldn't understand him, who would break him eventually.

But now, a certain component had inserted itself into Sherlock's life that he didn't know how to deal with. At first it had been a background _element_ gnawing at his senses without completely revealing itself. It had started at the same time his new housemate entered his life. John Watson. An unassuming man, mercilessly underestimated by the people around him, who not only accepted Sherlock as he was – and that was unexpected enough itself – but exuded an empathy that wouldn't normally be associated with an ex-soldier. Perhaps that was the reason he'd decided on the path of a military doctor and saved dozens of lives.

He'd also saved Sherlock's life, in a manner of speaking, although he wasn't really sure how or when that had happened. It wasn't until John was suddenly there that he'd realised how close he was to the abyss. He was still teetering on the blade's edge, but John was always there to catch him. In such a matter-of-fact way, as if it were the only reason for his existence. John's heart counterpoint to Sherlock's brain. His presence of mind in precisely those moments that were ruled by Sherlock's particular madness.

That creeping _something_ that had latched on inside Sherlock was becoming more and more of a problem. John was becoming important. So important that Sherlock could no longer picture a life without him. So important that one look between them sufficed to turn the world on its head and trigger a tranquillity in him of such dimensions that not even Victor could approach it. Wherever John was, there was peace, and he didn't want to share this recent discovery with anyone. Not even with John, as contradictory as that might seem. But to speak of it harboured the danger of someone trying to take that thing away from him which he didn't even really possess.

No, the only chance he had to be assured of this boon was to remain silent and take what he could get, whatever was freely given him. The less he expected, the more attention John seemed to naturally give him. And so every word of praise, every expression of enthusiasm, every friendly look was a nice little surprise. A thing that kept his heart beating.

But something had changed. John had changed. One small cog had slipped out of position. A tiny structure in his head that had been superfluous and wrong, arising from the fear of not fitting into the framework of those things he depended upon. Of being excluded from a fictional, perpetual security that seemed to manifest in the form of family, friends, and military. Structures that were bound to grotesque rules, that differentiated themselves in miniscule details from one person to another, and which could therefore only be vaguely understood. Senseless and meaningless, and at the same time apparently indispensible for some.

John had insisted on this structure time and again, asserted that things were just so and nothing else. And Sherlock had accepted it, had let it go without comment, and allowed him to feel free within his captive situation, had even tried to encourage him in his efforts. Even if those attempts had been half-hearted and not well thought through, because in a future in which John found a wife and started a family, there would be no place for him – for Sherlock. No need for chasing down criminals and that kick of adrenaline when there was a nagging wife and screaming infant at home...

He'd never thought it would be a man who would enter John's life – or rather become more prominent in it – and sweep away those imaginary structures, excluding Sherlock from a competition that had never even existed. An unexpected variable. John himself didn't really seem to be aware of the new direction his interest was taking, but it was only a matter of time. Sherlock knew John better than John did himself, and if he was correct in his suspicion, this whole thing wasn't at all the virgin territory John tried to make everyone think it was. The power of repression.

Sherlock reached for his glass and paused for a moment, watching the reflections of the light on the surface of the wine, before taking a small sip. He felt Victor's eyes on him, felt exposed, like an open book that had been read a hundred times already. Is this what it felt like to the people he deduced? It almost made him feel sympathy for them.

"I've missed you," Victor said softly, taking satisfaction in the way Sherlock's entire body twitched, a fact that anyone else would have missed.

"Don't lie to me," Sherlock retorted, taking another sip.

Victor just grinned to himself. He knew this game. It was the same every time. The bickering was part of the transition, a necessary component for Sherlock to remove his armour piece by piece without falling apart. Allowing emotions to express themselves was an extremely delicate matter for the consulting detective. It was as if it were a matter of life and death. Maybe it was. Victor had once seen him break down, and it wasn't something he wanted to see repeated. The smile disappeared from his lips at the mere thought.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and extended his hands toward Sherlock, palms up. The other man stared at the offering as if hypnotised. He struggled to subdue the mistrust building up inside him, seeking the memories of their shared past in the depths of his mind. The sense of comfort. Trust. The knowledge that he could have all of this – yet didn't want it from Victor as he had in the past, but from someone else – weighed heavily on his mind. _All hearts are broken_. The only resort left to him was to make himself unassailable. Victor was the only assistance he was willing to accept in order to quench his longing, at least for the time being.

He hesitantly slid his hand into Victor's, feeling every ridge and line. Skin had the remarkable property of creating a connection between two souls if you allowed it. With a single, smooth motion, Victor slid closer without breaking the contact between their hands. Their legs touched lightly, their eyes met and held. The bar with its guests and piano music faded into the background. Victor's free hand gently caressed Sherlock's face, and he automatically leaned into it.

"I've missed you..." Victor repeated more emphatically as his thumb slid across Sherlock's lower lip. For a moment it seemed as though Sherlock wanted to say something in reply, but changed his mind and turned his head to the side. His inner struggle was written all over his face, which usually didn't allow any emotions to rise to the surface. Words gathered on his tongue, waiting to be set free. He rinsed them down with the rest of his wine, set the glass down, and put his hand on the back of Victor's neck. Their lips touched, nerve endings ignited. The spell was broken.

Victor was more than willing to expose himself to the onslaught, allowed Sherlock's tongue entry to his mouth, returned the touch, caressing him. Victor felt the tension slowly dissipating from Sherlock as he leaned into him. Whatever was bothering him, he must have succeeded in temporarily pushing the thought aside. He would need to return to it later, naturally, but not now. Right now, he enjoyed being close to his friend again, being able to kiss him and watch as desire slowly seized control of him. With every kiss, one more piece of his facade of aloofness crumbled.

It didn't take long for them to decide on a change of scenery. Even in the taxi, they couldn't keep their fingers and lips off each other. Sherlock felt as if he were in the midst of a rushing wind. Gusts tossed his thoughts around, flinging them out of his head like so many dry leaves. None of that was important any more. The only thing that counted was the here and now. To finally, finally feel those things he'd suppressed for so long, banned from his daily existence in order not to be distracted. More than that – not to be vulnerable, not to be hurt. He had a lot of ground to regain.

He slid his fingers roughly into Victor's hair, pulled his head back and licked down his neck, felt the vibration of Victor's respiration, the pulse beneath his tongue. It aroused him beyond reason to know that he was the cause of Victor struggling with his self-control, that he was close to losing the battle.

He somehow managed to open the door to 221B without letting go of Victor for a single moment. He shoved him impetuously up against the textured wall in the entryway, sucking on his lips and duelling with his tongue. The next moment, Victor grabbed him and turned the tables, pressing him into the wall and letting him know that he wasn't about to relinquish control of the situation that easily or hand the reins over to Sherlock.

Breathing heavily, they pulled apart and looked at each other. Lust and desire were written across both of their faces like an open secret. Victor ran his hand down Sherlock's cheek, almost too gentle, over the swell of his cheekbone and down to his neck. Then he wrapped his hand around it, and a jolt went through Sherlock. The beast that lurked behind Victor's eyes made shivers go down his spine, made him break out in goose pimples from head to toe.

He turned his head and sighed in pleasure when Victor bit into his neck, nibbled and teased the sensitive skin. Suddenly, Sherlock realised they weren't alone.

John stood on the landing, watching them. Without looking at him directly, Sherlock couldn't tell how he was reacting to the situation. But did it matter? John might be his best friend but never wanted to be more than that. John had stood in precisely this spot just a few days ago – no matter how much he tried to deny it – and enacted the very same scene. He'd allowed Sherlock to help him up the stairs and into bed. Had let Sherlock kiss him... a kiss that... no. He couldn't dwell on it. Not now. Not here. John was going to think what he wanted anyway. Was going to jump to conclusions and take appropriate action without being able to comprehend even a sliver of Sherlock's true motivation. He would see how deep the abyss was that awaited him behind the facade, wanting nothing more than to devour him. No, Sherlock wasn't about to allow John anything more than this brief glimpse into his dark side. A taste of what he didn't want to have.

Sherlock gratefully returned the kiss Victor was giving him, his hand still firmly wrapped around Sherlock's throat. Had he noticed anything? Had he seen how Sherlock's eyes had lost focus for a fraction of a second? Had tuned him out? Of course he'd noticed. Victor wasn't stupid, knew him backwards and forwards. Even across great distances, he was able to read Sherlock's mind, despite the fact that Sherlock never intended to allow anyone that insight.

Sherlock placed one hand over Victor's heart, felt the other man's chest rise and fall with his rapid breaths. He gently pushed him away, let his fingers slide down Victor's sleeve, and reached for his hand to pull him along. He steeled himself before turning his head toward the stairs and facing the unavoidable eye contact with his flatmate. He somehow managed to go up the stairs, conjuring a nonchalant smile onto his lips.

"Good night... John," he heard himself say as he went past to get into the flat. What expression was that on John's face? Surprise? Distaste? Anger? Disappointment? Sherlock couldn't say. He'd seen all of those emotions on John before, had catalogued them, knew how to gauge them according to the situation. But this time he was unsuccessful. He couldn't help seeing his march into the flat, down the hall, and into his room as a kind of flight, rather than a continuation of his evening with Victor. His heart was racing and a completely new feeling cropped up amidst the original arousal and anticipation; a feeling he was unable to place. It felt as if his guts were contracting, as if his body were trying to sink into itself, to screen itself off from the outside world. Even before he reached the door to his room, Victor's hand landed roughly on his shoulder, stopping him from running away.

"Hey... not so fast..." he said, soft but firm. When he heard footsteps, though, he pushed Sherlock into the bedroom, closed the door, and gave his friend a quizzical look. This time, contrary to expectation, Sherlock didn't look away; instead, he bridged the two steps separating them and kissed him hungrily. Hands tugged frantically at his jacket, dragging it down his shoulders, undid buttons, and pushed cloth across skin. Victor did the same, helping Sherlock free himself from his clothes, until he was finally able to let his hands and tongue glide across the too-pale skin. He crowded Sherlock back impatiently until he bumped into the bedframe and sat down on the mattress. Victor removed the rest of his clothes, inserted his knee between Sherlock's thighs, and pressed him down onto the coverlet.

Sherlock wound his arms around Victor and pulled him close. The sensation of warm skin on skin, the weight of another body on his, was oddly comforting. He focused on all the little sensory inputs buzzing through his nerves, doing a fairly neat job of shuttling aside any thoughts that didn't belong to the two of them. Picking up where life had torn them apart last time. He let himself fall into the whirlpool of desire and being desired, burying his fingers and teeth in Victor's skin until it was decorated with red stripes and imprints.

When Victor sat up to look for lubricant, reaching unerringly for the knob on the nightstand drawer, Sherlock's arm shot out to stop him; but it was too late. Bewildered, Victor perused the contents of the drawer, unable to make sense of them. Nicotine patches, a couple of balled-up notes, a pen, police badges – Victor was acquainted with Sherlock's tendency to pickpocket police officers who annoyed him – and a nondescript key with a number engraved on it.

"No lube? Don't tell me you don't have any..." Victor said, kissing his way across Sherlock's jaw.

"In the loo..." Sherlock muttered, sighing in frustration when Victor clambered off him and sat on the edge of the bed. Once more, Victor let his eyes wander over the contents of the drawer. Sherlock's defensive reaction had been too automatic, trying too hard to conceal such inconsequential objects.

"What is all this?" he asked instead, nodding at the nightstand.

"Nothing..." Sherlock exhaled, pained, and leaned his head against Victor's back. He knew he wasn't going to get out of it so easily, but he tried to make clear in a nonverbal manner how uncomfortable he was over the minor discovery.

Amused, Victor raised one eyebrow and reached for one of the crumpled-up notes, unfolded it, and scanned the words scribbled there, which turned out to be a shopping list. He put the paper down on top of the nightstand and took out the key, flipping it over between his index finger and his thumb. The number was stamped into the bow.

"Is this a hotel key?"

"Yes..."

"Did you nick it?" Victor asked, drawing one knee up onto the mattress so he could turn toward his friend.

"Maybe."

"Are you going to tell me from where?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, not intending it as a negation to the question, merely as an expression of resignation. "Grimpen, Dartmoor," he answered softly.

"What were you doing there? A case?" A silent nod followed. "Hmm..." Victor mused, continuing to flip the key over between his fingers. "Am I correct in assuming you weren't alone there?"

Sherlock finally lifted his face toward Victor and gave him a searching look. His eyes looked darker than usual, apparently unable to settle on a single colour. He absentmindedly kissed his friend on the shoulder.

"That has no bearing on matters..."

"It has no bearing because nothing happened, you mean? Nothing aside from you taking a ridiculous souvenir back with you, despite the fact that you of all people have the least need to retain your memories through objects." He dropped the key back into the drawer with a clink and picked up the note again. "And I know you're messy, but you don't generally keep rubbish lying around. Unless it has something to do with a case." He unfolded a second paper, which bore the name of a woman and a telephone number. The next one was covered in notes that didn't seem to have any rhyme or reason. Some of the words were crossed out, numbers scribbled along the edge, a few doodles here and there. This sheet looked very much like a typical piece of paper that often lies beside telephones in order to be available as a memory aid. All of the notes were in the same handwriting. And it wasn't Sherlock's.

Victor sighed, wadded the notes up again, and tossed them back into the drawer. He closed his eyes for a moment, and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth when he turned back to Sherlock.

"Let's play a game..." he said and stood up, looking around the room.

Sherlock watched as Victor went to his dresser and pulled open the drawers, looking for something. He took out one of Sherlock's white shirts, holding the cuffs of the sleeves with one hand and the bottom of the shirt with the other, rotated it around itself a few times to create a long, twisted strip of cloth, and came back with it to sit down on the bed. He leaned over Sherlock and kissed him tenderly.

"I'm going to blindfold you," he said softly between kisses.

Sherlock made a sound that teetered between arousal and denial. He didn't like the thought of being robbed of his sense of sight. Yet he didn't protest when Victor told him to lie on his stomach so that he could wrap the twisted-up shirt around his eyes.

The darkness immediately sharpened Sherlock's remaining senses. He felt with exaggerated clarity as fingers wandered down his back, drawing curvy lines and eliciting goose pimples. Shortly thereafter, they were replaced with lips sliding across his shoulder blades and nape, teeth gently scraping at the skin of his neck. A quiet sigh came from deep in his throat, and he arched longingly toward Victor wherever he was touched.

"Relax..." Victor growled close to his ear, "I'll be right back." The mattress bounced a little as he stood.

Sherlock lay frozen in position, as taut as a bowstring, his hands flat on either side of his body. He heard Victor leave the room, expecting to hear the door to the bathroom next. But instead his footsteps echoed down the hall. Sherlock drew his eyebrows together anxiously. Where was Victor going, completely starkers? Minutes passed, during which Sherlock heard nothing more than his own breath. Just when he was about to remove the blindfold, a distant creak sounded, then the characteristic click of the door to the flat as it was closed. A shiver ran down Sherlock's back when he realised Victor must have gone to one of the other floors. Since he most certainly hadn't been paying a visit to Mrs Hudson, John's room was the only other choice. Apparently John had left the building.

The door to his room opened, accompanied by a cool draught of air. The door closed, and Victor grunted with satisfaction. "You haven't moved … very good. I'm glad you're so willing to go on this little … adventure, Sherlock," he said, stepping up to the foot of the bed.

"What did you do?" Sherlock wanted to know. The fingers of his right hand opened and closed nervously, the tips of his fingers caressing his palm. The darkness irritated him, and he didn't like the fact that his brain was starting to work again. He didn't want to think about what was happening around him; he wanted to relax, let go, let himself fall...

"Don't worry about that..."

The mattress dipped between Sherlock's feet. Lips pressed into the backs of his knees, triggering an indescribable tingling. Sherlock gasped softly as all of his remaining senses followed the sensation of the mouth on his skin. His heart rate increased when hands were added, stroking his calves and thighs. The heat of the other body – still much too far away – was heady. He put his right arm under his head and rested his forehead on it. He left his other arm lying beside him. When Victor pushed one knee into the mattress between Sherlock's hip and his hand, Sherlock slid his palm against it, seeking out the contact.

Victor's tongue traced Sherlock's vertebrae up to his hairline and sought a path underneath his earlobes, which he then gently sucked between his teeth.

"I know what's going on inside you, Sherlock..." he whispered darkly. A shudder ran through the body under him. "I know what you long for... the dilemma you've found yourself in..." Each word was accompanied by a touch, a stroke of a fingertip or nail, a pinch of skin. "How long have you been hiding your feelings from him, hm? How many nights have you lain awake in order not to dream of him?"

Sherlock's fingernails dug into Victor's thigh with a sudden flutter of desperation. The lump in his throat made it difficult to swallow, stealing away the air he needed to breathe. He suspected what Victor's _game_ was about, and he was anything but certain whether he could handle it. And yet he wanted nothing less than to escape the situation and flee. Arousal and fear of shattering completely battled with each other, and if it hadn't been Victor doing this with him, he would never have let it get this far. Victor had pinpointed his weakness, and was using it against him. But not with the intention of hurting him as other people most likely would have done; instead, it was to help him. To quench the longing just a little.

"I... can't..." Sherlock stammered. Frustrated, he discovered that his head refused to call forth images of his flatmate as Victor apparently expected him to. To imagine it was John beside him, letting his hands slide across Sherlock's body, titillating him, desiring him.

But Victor had counted on there being resistance. "Let go..." he breathed, kissing Sherlock's nape again. At the same time, he slipped something into Sherlock's hand where it lay under his face. Sherlock grasped the rough material, nonplussed, only to register John's scent a moment later. Images of his flatmate flooded his mind. The warm smile, the sparkle in his eyes, the incredible charisma exuding from such an unimposing person, casting a spell over Sherlock every time. He realised Victor had given him one of John's jumpers, which smelled unmistakably of him. His fingers slid over the wool, felt for the fletched pattern, and he immediately envisioned John in this very same grey jumper right before his eyes. His body took over, reacting automatically to the searching hands exploring every centimetre of skin, relentlessly running across his back.

Hot breath singed his loins. A hand inserted itself between his thighs, under his hips, sliding over his erection, almost painfully hard. Sherlock moaned softly, rubbing himself greedily into the hand, even as he felt Victor's mouth wandering across the swell of his arse, teeth digging paths into his skin. He shifted his weight to his knees in order to push his hips back toward the other man, increasing the friction between them. The searing tongue glided capriciously across his balls, up between his arse cheeks, and danced playfully around the ring of muscle. Sherlock moaned with abandon, digging his fingers into the grey cloth and burying his face in it. Quaking, he supported himself on his elbows, leaving his forehead resting between the folds of the jumper. Blood rushed in his ears, his breaths shallow and laboured.

He moaned lustfully, pressing back toward the teasing mouth. Tongue and fingers stimulated him, almost driving him mad, until he finally heard the characteristic click of a plastic lid. The heat which the mouth left behind was abruptly cooled by the gel which Victor distributed on his sensitive skin. First one finger, then two, slipped inside Sherlock's body, causing a dark rumble to arise in his throat. He tensed up almost automatically, surging toward the sensation the other man lured from him, moving back and forth, panting and biting down hard on his lips. He felt Victor sit up, one hand on Sherlock's hip to stabilise himself, his fingers still buried deep inside him.

"Say it..." he growled – demanded – digging his nails into Sherlock's thigh.

"N-no..." Sherlock gasped between two breaths. But then the fingers inside him brushed his prostate. The triggered nerves sent waves of pleasure through his limbs, like lashes from a whip. Breathless, he tried to increase the friction, but whenever he moved toward the hand, it pulled back a little, preventing that renewed stimulation which Sherlock coveted. Frustrated, he groaned, chewing on his lower lip.

"Come on..." Victor whispered, stroking his own erection now. He was almost at the limit of his self-control, and it was becoming more difficult by the second to hold back, not to seize Sherlock and devour him. The way he was losing control little by little was an intoxicating thing to see, and in another situation it might even have been enough to bring him to climax. But drawing Sherlock out, pushing him past his personal limits, making him aware of what he himself wanted, would be even more worth it. The trembling in Sherlock's voice was driving him to the edge of his willpower.

"I... p-please..."

"Not enough!" Victor insisted curtly, impatient.

"Please... f-fuck me..." Sherlock gasped.

"Say my name," Victor demanded ruthlessly. He removed his fingers, reached for the lubricant, squeezed out a generous amount, and spread it over his erection. After he scooted closer to Sherlock's rear, he lazily rubbed the head across the dilated ring of muscle, observing with satisfaction as Sherlock's body tensed in anticipation.

As if in a trance, Sherlock gathered the jumper into his arms and buried his face in it, inhaling the scent of his friend deeply. His heart fluttered incessantly in his chest, pumping adrenaline through his veins. The arousal was excruciating. Desire clouded all of his senses.

"... _John_..." It was no more than a whisper into the rough cloth, but it was enough for Victor to hear him. He immediately thrust into Sherlock, pushing himself slowly but inexorably into him. His hands spanned Sherlock's hips roughly, drawing him closer, until he was completely buried inside him. Sherlock clung to the jumper, seeking an anchor, groaning in a combination of pain and desire. His arms and legs trembled, protesting the tension. Victor slowly started to move, rocking gently in harmony with Sherlock's body, until it adjusted to him, accepted him.

The sensations tumbled over each other inside Sherlock, tripping over images that his mind kept presenting. Even though he knew they were nothing more than figments of his imagination and would bear no lasting consequences, he felt just a little bit guilty. The feeling was still alien to his system, meaningless in his code of behaviours. And yet it didn't feel _right_ to imagine himself having sex with his best friend. He couldn't – didn't want to – prevent the illusion of John's presence from sweeping away his doubts, as Victor moved more intently inside him, until the point came at which he could release himself to the fantasy and let himself go.

With one hand, he reached behind himself to the other body, trying to pull it closer. He quivered with the relentless thrusts, moaned softly, his friend's name constantly on his lips. Sweat poured down his back and pearled on his forehead, where it was absorbed by the blindfold. It had been too long since he'd let himself go like this. He sighed a complaint when Victor separated from him, rolling him roughly onto his side, then onto his back. Hands enclosed his hips, pulling him closer to the other man again. Arms pressed into the backs of his knees, angling his legs so that they almost touched his chest, before Victor entered him again. He moved back and forth, unrelenting, stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves over and over.

Sherlock's mouth was open slightly, emitting red-hot breath and lust-infused sounds. Victor bent over Sherlock, caught his reddened lips, nibbling on them, and let his tongue slip into his mouth. Teeth and tongue forged their way across Sherlock's jaw, down his neck to his collarbone, and latched on firmly. A hand inserted itself between their sweat-coated bodies, reaching for Sherlock's erection and rubbing it with purposeful strokes.

Sherlock dug into Victor's shoulders and hair, arching his back up. He felt himself inexorably approaching climax, the sensations building up in his groin. As if struck by a jolt of electricity, his body tensed as waves of ecstasy rolled through it. His lips parted in a soundless cry, he clung to the other man. Everything was silent for a single moment. Breath and pulse, thoughts and emotions. Frozen. It resolved much too soon, making way for a prickling bliss that suffused his limbs.

Victor held himself up on his elbows, hovering over Sherlock, his forehead resting on his shoulder, breathing hard. When Sherlock wrapped one arm around him, he felt the subliminal post-coital trembling as the tension slowly drained out of him. With his free hand, he removed the blindfold from his head, put his other arm around Victor too, and held him close. Victor slipped out of him, let go of his legs so that Sherlock could stretch out, and nestled in close to his friend.

They lay like that, quietly beside each other, for several minutes, listening to their own heartbeats.

"Thank you..." Sherlock eventually whispered. "For being willing to do that for me..."

Victor looked up, grinning at him meaningfully. "Well, it wasn't all for charity... Unfortunately, I don't really know him well enough, otherwise I might have done better," he said with a smirk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but returned the grin. "He'll kill me if he ever finds out..."

"I... haven't seen you like this... in love, I mean... not since back then." Lost in thought, Victor caressed the red mark outlined on Sherlock's collarbone. "Maybe you should just give it a go? Tell him how you feel?"

Sherlock sighed, pained. "No... no, that's not a good idea. John, he... wouldn't..." He bit his lip, shaking his head slightly.

"You mean you wouldn't want to risk your friendship?"

A simple nod was the only reply.

"Weren't you the one who always called emotions a chemical defect you find on the losing side?" Victor sat up and swung his legs off the bed to perch on the edge of the mattress. He got rid of the condom and cleaned himself quickly with a tissue from the nightstand. "That means we're all losers. It's in our nature, and just because you think you have them under control, you're not safe from them. Just the opposite: the more you suppress them, the more intensely they'll demand your attention sooner or later."

"That's what I have you for," Sherlock parried dryly.

Victor's comment on that was a joyless laugh. "But you don't want me, Sherlock. You never did. The only reason you continue to accept me in your life is that I don't demand anything of you, I don't burden you with my feelings, I'm here whenever you need me and leave when you lost interest. The fact that you've fallen in love might be a sign that you want someone who's not going to leave."

The last statement sounded more like a question than a declaration. Victor's gaze rested on his friend's pensive face. He got up and fished around for his pants, which lay on the floor amongst the other randomly scattered articles of clothing. After he'd put them on, he opened the door.

"I'm getting something to drink," he said, winked, and left the room.

Sherlock watched him leave, staring at the empty space in the doorframe. He turned onto his side and reached for the grey jumper, pulling it close to his face. His fingers roamed across the material as if he were caressing it.

Should he give it a try? What if John really did go along with a relationship? Sherlock had never been involved in anything that other people might call a relationship. The things people did to each other were simply too unpredictable, too painful. Why would anyone willingly expose themselves to such misery? Just for those three magic words which wouldn't mean anything a moment later?

A broken heart was the epitome of absurdity. There was no point in setting yourself up for it and immersing yourself in emotions that clouded the senses.

No, that was nothing Sherlock Holmes wanted any part of...

 

+++

tbc

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a dub-con scene which has mostly to do with John’s insecurities about his sexuality! Once he gets over them he is very interested in what’s happening. However, this is absolutely not meant to portrait dub-con as something “you just have to get over” or “ignore”!
> 
> \---
> 
> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John sat on his bed, his legs drawn up and his back leaning against the cool wall. He was reading an article in a medical journal – or at least trying to, given the fact that he'd had to start the same paragraph over three times now. When he finally gave up, he hitched his sports bag over his shoulder and left the flat. He wasn't sure whether Sherlock and Victor were still home, but told himself he didn't care either way.

Rather than going straight to _Smax_ , he called for a taxi and had himself driven to St Bartholomew's hospital. He greeted the nurses on the weekend shift when they gave him annoyed looks, explaining that he'd forgot something important and needed to go to his consulting room. He closed the door quietly behind himself, dropped his bag on the floor, and sat down at his desk.

The atmosphere in the hospital helped him concentrate, and he was not only able to finish reading the article and process it, he also took care of a couple of files that had been left to linger. When there was nothing more to do, he rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times, checked his watch, and decided it was time to get something to eat.

He had a sandwich and a piece of cake at a nearby restaurant, treated himself to a cup of coffee despite the fact that it was actually too late for it, and had a look around. The other people eating there didn't interest him much. They blurred together, blending in with the furnishings to create an aggregate of sound and colour, like a filter laid over the actual image.

He kept thinking about the conversation he'd had with Sarah that morning. Yet another person who assumed he and his flatmate were carrying on a romantic relationship. At the same time, he had to admit that her opinions regarding sexuality weren't wrong, and largely lined up with what he'd always believed. It was just that he found it difficult to apply those principles to himself. Did it really have something to do with Harry and her fraught relationship with their parents? He couldn't say for sure. He'd never really given it much thought before. He'd never imagined that the hardships his sister had endured with her coming-out might rebound to him. And yet in the darkest corners of his mind, he was fully aware that there was more to his identity than a man made up solely of blacks and whites. He was becoming more and more aware of all the shades of grey that made him human – and which were perceived by others in both a positive and a negative light. He twirled the coffee spoon around between his fingers, pensive.

 _Maybe I should call Greg_ , he thought, looking out the window. The sun had gone down in the meantime, and the streets were filling with people going to pubs and clubs to have a good time. John paid his bill, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left the restaurant. Still preoccupied, he made his way through the streets. He walked for over an hour until he reached the Port of London and saw _Smax_ in the distance. The lights were on, even this late, but he hoped there weren't many people still there.

He went inside, scanning those who were present. One of the boxing rings was occupied by two combatants, but the other one was empty. One of the rowing machines and both punching bags were also being used. All in all, there were only six people there, though.

John went to the changing room and stood in front of his usual locker, set his bag down, and hung up his jacket. He slipped out of his shoes, took off his jeans and shirt, and stowed everything, then took his gym clothes out of the bag, put them on, and tied his trainers. Finally, he took his water bottle, sparring gloves, and mouth guard out of his bag, locked the bag in the locker, and went back to the main hall.

He set down his water bottle near the weights, picked up one of the skipping ropes from the floor, and started to warm up. When his eye fell on the two boxers in the ring, he realised one of them was Greg. John hadn't noticed him at first because he was wearing a different outfit and had a sparring helmet on his head. John watched as Greg executed a series of punches, bringing his adversary to the floor.

When the whistle sounded for the next round, Greg didn't waste a lot of time dancing around his opponent, instead launching right into an offensive. Impressed, John could tell that the policeman had improved quite a bit just in the short time since he'd joined _Smax_. He'd largely overcome his initial hesitation toward hurting his opponent, even if he still was more cautious than most not to overdo it. He almost never followed up with one last punch once his rival was on the ground, unless he thought a counterattack was likely.

Unlike John, whose experience had mainly been gained through wrestling, Greg's strength lay in boxing. He sometimes added a couple of kicks, but it was clear that he'd never had any formal training in kickboxing. Most of the moves he used probably came from the self-defence instruction he'd received during his police training. He was agile, and dodged attacks more often than simply blocking them.

John watched the fight for a few more seconds, then went over to the ring. Greg had just finished his match, and John greeted him by raising his hand.

A friendly smile played about Greg's lips, revealing his mouth guard, which he took out a moment later. "Hey, John, how about a round?" he asked with a challenging look.

"Erm..." John felt a hint of pink rising to his cheeks. He'd actually resolved not to think about the incident from the other day any more, but the prospect of a match against Greg made the memory come crashing over him again. "I... had already..." Casting about for a name, John pointed at an athlete in the back part of the hall, who was busy lifting weights. "...promised him the next round."

"Okay," Greg said, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Maybe later then!"

John nodded, turned on his heel, and went over to the man he'd pointed at. He didn't notice John. It wasn't until John cleared his throat to get his attention that he looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, and a vein in his forehead was throbbing nervously. He looked fairly powerful, but didn't make a particularly nimble impression. In different circumstances, John probably wouldn't have chosen this particular opponent, because he was not only quite a bit heavier than John, he also looked extremely cross.

"Hi... How about going a round?" John asked, trying not to let his uncertainty show. He knew he could use the other man's size against him, and that stature didn't automatically decide a fight. He'd also gained quite a bit of experience by now, such that the chances were good he could decide the fight in his favour. So he thought.

Once they entered the unoccupied ring and taken their positions, Greg joined them, a whistle in his hand.

"I'll be your referee. We'll do three rounds of five minutes each. No dirty tricks... understood, Jeff?" As he said the last few words, Greg glared at the larger of the two adversaries and waited until he nodded grudgingly. Then he turned to John for a moment and tried to let him know through a look to be careful.

Pursing his lips, John put on his sparring helmet and inserted his mouth guard. He was getting a sinking feeling in his gut, and his pulse fluttered nervously. He tried to put it down to the nerves he always felt when he fought an unfamiliar opponent, and took a few deep breaths. Then he squared his shoulders and looked Jeff over from head to toe, trying to discover any weak points.

The sheer power emanating from the other man was frightening. Simply based on their weight difference, he wasn't sure whether he would be able to wrestle Jeff to the mat without putting himself in danger. _Intimidation is probably one of his tactics_ , John thought, and raised his fists. Greg gave the start signal, and the two combatants went for each other.

In point of fact, Jeff didn't move much. He bounced more than danced around, mostly tracking his opponent with his eyes and only sluggishly following with his body. John tried out a quick one-two combination just to see what would happen, but it was easily blocked. He tried various punches and kicks for a while, but couldn't find any weak spots to squeeze a point out of Jeff. Shortly before the end of the first round, he made a move for Jeff's torso to try out a hold, but the other man stood there as firm as a rock, not moving an inch, and simply pushed John away with the flat of his hand. There was so much power behind the move that John fell backwards and had to roll away. It wasn't enough for a point, but it was obvious that the two fighters had just been testing each other in the first round.

John took a deep breath and waited for the whistle to start the second round. No sooner had it sounded than he launched himself at Jeff. After letting loose with a combination of punches that served more to keep him busy than anything else, he ducked away from the counter-attack and kicked his opponent's foot out from under him. Then he leapt up, grabbed Jeff's arm when he was still off-balance, and jammed his shoulder into Jeff's chest to force him down. One more punch secured him the point.

But just as he started moving away from Jeff, the other man seized John's arm as quick as lightning, pulled him down on top of himself, and punched him in the head as he fell. John groaned and rolled to the side, dazed, trying to get to his feet. A kick landed on his calf, causing him to lose his foothold. With great presence of mind, he drew his arms and legs in close to his body and was able to block a second kick. Then the whistle sounded. Just as John lowered his defences, Jeff turned back to him and delivered a follow-up kick. A pained gasp escaped John's throat, and he wrapped his hands around his maltreated stomach.

"Hey! One more move like that and I'm reporting you, Jeff! Is that clear?" Greg yelled, inserting himself between the two men. John heard only a scornful snort, and bit down angrily on his mouth guard.

"Everything okay?" Greg asked in a low voice right next to his ear, placing one hand on John's shoulder. "Do you want to continue?"

John simply nodded, and struggled to his feet. A quick glance at Greg's face betrayed his concern for John. It was possible that he'd reckoned on this being an unfair fight from the start, and that's why he'd volunteered to serve as referee. John forced out a small smile and straightened his helmet, nodding to Greg to signal that he was ready.

The whistle sounded, and John bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. This time he waited until Jeff gave up on defending and went on the attack. The punches that followed were precise and vibrated in every bone in John's body. But he saw that the other man was tiring; he wasn't weakening, but he was getting slower. John nimbly dodged a right hook, prepared for Jeff to follow up with a left jab. Which is exactly what he did.

Since John didn't think he could heave Jeff over his shoulder, he kicked him in the right shin to knock him off balance again. At the same time, he grabbed for Jeff's hand as it shot forward and shifted all his weight into pushing against Jeff's upper body, causing him to topple. John loomed over him, held his arms in place with his knees, and delivered two precise blows to his chest and chin. However, this time he didn't let up and pull away, but kept him there on the floor. Jeff glared daggers at him, furious, trying to twist out of the hold, but failed.

"You've lost," John growled, punching Jeff once more right before the final whistle sounded. This time he got up more cautiously, not sure whether the other man had himself under control.

Greg moved in between the two men and tallied the points. "Jeff, three points. John, five. John wins..." he said, stepping back without letting the other two out of his sight. He'd had a bad feeling throughout the fight, and was glad it had ended harmlessly despite the fact that it had pushed the limits of fair play. He waited until Jeff had left the ring to relax his posture markedly and go over to John, who was sliding the sparring helmet off his head.

"Good Lord... I think you've made yourself an enemy..."

"Looks like it... I should probably have picked someone else," John responded, slipping out of his gloves. "I could use some water. How about you?"

Greg smiled, and John was glad he didn't mention the fact that he'd offered himself as a sparring partner earlier. They left the ring and went to the corner where John had left his water bottle. He picked it up and opened it, took a big gulp, and passed it over to Greg.

"If you give me a couple of minutes to take a breather, we can go a round afterwards," John suggested. He'd actually had enough for one night, but he felt a little guilty for having turned Greg down flatly before, and owed him now for nothing worse having happened during the fight with Jeff. At any rate, he'd have to report Jeff, since he didn't want to be the cause of other members of _Smax_ being injured due to unfair practises.

Greg nodded and went back to the rings in order to see if he could participate in another match in the meantime, or at least help out in some manner.

John sat down on the floor with his back to the wall and drank his water. He watched as Greg spoke to two members, a man and a woman, laughing with them about something that John couldn't understand from that distance. He'd clearly found his place here and made a few contacts to start with. But John wasn't really surprised. Greg was an outgoing person who had no problem approaching others and getting them on his side. Which was definitely an advantage in his work as a policeman. He also seemed to be a good judge of character. And to have a good heart... John snorted softly, shaking his head a little. He didn't think anyone was watching him, so he was able to observe Greg from a distance without it looking strange.

He had to admit he found Greg attractive. Until recently, he'd only ever seen him at crime scenes or when he came to Baker Street to discuss a case with Sherlock. He seemed to focus all of his attention on his work, which he took very seriously. It must be pretty frustrating for him to ask Sherlock for help so often, John thought, turning the screw-top lid of his water bottle around between his fingers. The man at the crime scenes and the man here at _Smax_ seemed to be two completely different characters. He seemed much more relaxed and smiled almost all the time here, as if he were happy to leave all his responsibilities from the Yard at the door to the gym.

A grin snuck onto John's face when he saw the woman Greg was talking to slip him a piece of paper and whisper something in his ear. Afterwards, she went back to her companion and then left the gym. Greg looked over at John, shrugged, and made a face as if it weren't his fault. John could well imagine that Greg was often approached by women – and maybe by men too – even when he wasn't looking to hook up with anyone. His charisma did the job for him without him having to do much to help it along.

Greg turned back to the ring, and John was just about to go over to him when someone spoke to him. It was the same woman who had served as the referee for his fight the day before. He still didn't remember her name. She held out her hand with a key in it.

"Can you close up afterwards and drop the key in the mailbox outside? I need to get to bed. You can throw everyone else out if you don't want to wait any longer."

"Sure, I can do that. Have a good evening!"

"Thanks!" She winked at him and left the gym.

John went to stand beside Greg at the ropes and watched the fighters sparring. It was just a practise fight, not intended to garner points. A glance at the clock on the wall informed him that it was past midnight, but he didn't feel like heading home yet. The two fighters ended their final round and tapped their gloves together, took off their helmets, and finally left the ring.

"What do you say... want to get in a little more practise?" Greg asked John and nodded toward the ring.

John couldn't help feeling a little nervous, but nodded in agreement and climbed through the ropes. Tightening his gloves, he watched as Greg pushed the helmets to the edge of the ring as if to make it clear that they wouldn't be needing them. Just like the previous pair, he wasn't interested in a serious exchange of blows, just a practise round.

Greg returned to the middle of the ring and put his hands on his hips, a mischievous grin at the edges of his lips. "Maybe you can teach me a thing or two..." he said with a wink.

Half scoffing, half laughing, John looked down at his hands, not sure whether Greg was flirting with him or just trying to ease the underlying tension.

"Let's get started then," John said, and started to bounce on the balls of his feet and roll his shoulders. "Your left's pretty good, but when your opponent knows that, they can use it against you. It's not like boxing; I can use the power in your punch to my own advantage and get you on the floor with it."

"You mean like yesterday?"

John considered for a moment, reviewing the beginning of the match from the previous day. He nodded slowly in confirmation. "Yeah, sort of, but I didn't turn you against yourself there... go on, you can give it a shot."

Greg nodded and started with a few light punches, which John dodged by leaning back. They danced around each other for a while, exchanging hooks and jabs, until Greg didn't have his mind on what the purpose of the exercise even was anymore. Right then, John suddenly seized Greg's wrist, twisted around, and pulled Greg's arm up over his shoulder. With a precise jerk, he threw the policeman to the mat, pushing him down with his upper arm without letting go of the wrist in his grip.

"You see..." he said, grinning, "now I'd already have a point and could follow up for two or three. You should come up with some kind of defensive strategy to get out of situations like this quickly."

"All right..." Greg said in a low voice, making eye contact. "You can let go now."

John immediately moved away from him, leaping to his feet. He cleared his throat and put some distance between them. In doing so, he missed the grin on Greg's face entirely.

"Again!" Greg demanded, getting back into position. John simply nodded and did the same.

They exchanged punches again along with light kicks, each trying to confuse the other, until John again reached for a left jab, levered Greg over his shoulder, and threw him to the ground. But this time, Greg made use of John's momentum, and before he landed, he flipped John over him, trying to twist John's arm behind his back.

Reacting quickly, John turned onto his back and drew up his right leg, placing his shin in front of Greg's stomach, and pushed him away. He immediately jumped back up to his feet and moved away from his opponent.

"Good.... you've obviously done that before," John panted, wiping his gloved hand across his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two other club members from before leaving the changing room and raising their hands to say good-bye. Distracted, he couldn't react to Greg's attack in time, and ended up on the floor again. He lifted his arms to fend off the other man, but Greg grabbed his wrists and tried to hold them down. No sooner had John freed himself than Greg grabbed for him again, this time not letting go. John tried to twist around to get a better angle where he could use his legs, but Greg was prepared for that and used his momentum to turn John from his side onto his stomach, where he then immobilised John's arm on his back. He pinned the other arm to the mat.

"And what do you do now?" Greg asked in a gravelly voice, right in John's ear.

A shiver ran down John's spine, and he bit down on his lips in order not to make any traitorous sounds. His heart was racing. The proximity to the other man, being at his mercy, didn't just put him in fight-or-flight mode. The weight of the other body on his aroused mixed emotions in him. On the one hand, he wanted to tear himself away and get his own back, show the other man that he wasn't so easy to throw over. On the other hand, every cell in his body seemed to want to reach out to Greg, pull him close and hold onto him. Why did this man have such an effect on him? It was maddening.

"Let me...go..." John gritted out, trying to avert his face in order to hide what was going on inside him.

Greg hesitated a moment, seeming about to say something, but let him go in the end and got up. John clambered to his feet as well and took his gloves off.

"I think we should wrap it up for tonight..." … _before I lose my head_ , he added silently. "I'll go lock the door already so no one else thinks we're still open," he said, and walked away towards the entrance without looking at Greg again.

"Yeah, good... I'll go on ahead then..." Greg pointed at the changing room and left the ring. On the way, he took his gloves off too and ran a hand through his hair.

John inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and left it hanging there so they wouldn't forget it later. He turned off the overhead lamps, leaving just the emergency lamps glowing with enough light to be able to see somewhat in the darkness. On the way back, he gathered up his water bottle and finally entered the changing room. He could hear from the running water that Greg was already in the shower, and went to his locker to peel out of his gym clothes.

With his towel around his hips, he went to the shower area. The tiled room was long and narrow, divided into five shower stalls. They were separated by walls that started about twenty centimetres off the floor and rose to the height of a person's head. He opened the swinging door of the stall next to Greg and went in, draped his towel over the door, and turned on the water.

The warm liquid did his strained muscles good, and he enjoyed feeling it run down his face and back. He washed his hair first, then rubbed soap on his hand and washed everything else. Since the walls on either side only went as high as John's nose, he could see Greg if he glanced over his shoulder a little to the right. He was just rubbing his face with both hands to wipe off the lather. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back, and his mouth slightly open. John automatically licked his lips. He couldn't help picturing the other man's body behind the divider. The damp skin, the muscles and tendons beneath. His heart rate increased as he thought about how Greg had pushed him down on the mat, the feel of the weight on his hips, the heat, the heady scent...

 _Fuck._ He swallowed hard when his body took over the reins and reacted to his thoughts. It was as if his body were betraying him. An almost untameable desire seized control of him, shooting through every fibre of his being. He would have liked nothing more than to look right through the partition, look his fill at the water drops pearling on the other man's skin. What would it feel like? What would it be like to be touched by his hands, to be held tight? John ran a hand over his erection without even thinking about it as a tingling ran through him and gathered in his groin. He shouldn't do this... he shouldn't touch himself just a few centimetres away from Greg. He couldn't allow him to know anything about it. The pounding in his chest was getting harder, his breath burning in his lungs as he tried to control it.

Then Greg turned to him, and for a brief moment, the earth stood still. John's entire system simply seemed to go offline. The look in those brown eyes threw him into utter confusion. Shame bubbled up inside him, squeezing his throat shut. He resolutely tore his eyes away from the contact, staring at the water tap. Had Greg noticed any of what was going on with him? The partition was supposed to conceal the important bits, but John was anything but sure of that. He felt exposed, and what was worse, that aroused him even further. He felt like slapping his hands over his face, but tried to appear completely calm on the outside.

He was seriously considering turning up the cold water to cool off and force his body to act reasonably, but then he noticed that Greg had turned off the water on his side. Rooted to the spot, John listened to every one of Greg's moves: opening the door of his stall, his feet padding across the wet floor. He was going to wait until Greg had left the shower room, at least, before he dared to breathe again.

But rather than going to the changing room, Greg stopped in front of John's shower stall, took down the towel, and tossed it over the door of the next stall over. Then he opened the door, and a lightning bolt went through John. Greg took his time entering the stall. John felt as if everything were happening in high definition as the door quietly shut and the other body approached without touching him. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his throat closed up tight, not willing to protest. Could he lay the blame on the sound of the shower and pretend he didn't hear anything?

Still trying to decide which reaction would be better, he felt Greg brush his lower arm as he reached around John and turned off the shower with a squeak. Two fingers from Greg's other hand rested on the curve of his backbone, slowly sliding down his spine as they followed the line of water droplets being pulled down by gravity.

"Don't..." The word ghosted across John's lips. But Greg ignored his objection, instead pressing his lips to the back of John's neck. A shudder went through his body, but John still didn't resist. As if bewitched, he followed the path of the lips on his skin as they wandered across his shoulders. The tongue probed the bumps of his vertebrae. Greg's left hand reached around John, under his chin, turning his face towards Greg so he could kiss him. But before their lips touched, John moved out of his grasp.

"Don't..." he said again, but softer and more tentative than the first time. Greg wasn't put off. His right hand slipped into the gap between John's ribcage and upper arm, sliding across his abdomen, which rose and fell with shaky breaths as Greg's left hand let go of John's face and caressed his neck and chest. John's heart was easy to feel where it throbbed beneath the surface. Greg's right thumb circled John's navel and wandered lower until the tips of his fingers felt crinkly hair.

"Don't!" John insisted, this time in a firm voice. Greg flinched, and he grabbed John by the shoulder and turned him around roughly, pushing him back into the corner of the stall. His eyes were dark with desire, pinning John hungrily. John's eyes darted back and forth between Greg's eyes and his mouth, unable to decide what he wanted. _Retreat_ , whimpered his head. _The hell with that_ , answered pretty much everything else in John that was involved in this particular situation. His body was betraying him, and he didn't feel as if he could change it.

Greg made the decision for him once again. The previous roughness gave way to gentle kisses on his neck and shoulder, probing their way across raw scar tissue. Lips sought a path over his wet ribs and stomach. Teeth lightly scraped the rise of his hipbone, eliciting a suppressed sigh. John watched as if through a veil as Greg knelt down in front of him.

A moment later, fingers and lips wrapped around his erection. John inhaled sharply, put a hand on Greg's forehead to push him away, but his strength ebbed halfway. Instead, his fingers slid into the other man's hair as Greg's tongue tentatively ran around his sensitive glans, before his mouth surged over John's erection. Stuttered breaths and choked-off sounds escaped from John's throat. He leaned his head back, resting against the cool tiles. He felt Greg's hand sliding across his thigh, over the curve of his arse, his fingers pushing in between his cheeks... Breathing hard, he grabbed the hand, held it up, and gazed down feverishly at the other man.

Greg's mouth abandoned him, but the fingers of his free hand continued their motion unimpeded, stimulating, relentlessly furthering his arousal. He returned John's gaze, licked his upper lip salaciously, then the tip of John's erection. Without taking his eyes off John, his lips surrounded the red-hot skin, travelled down its entire length, and elicited a deep moan, which Greg would have acquitted with a knowing smile if he'd been able to.

John had no idea where his head was. His thought process had come to a standstill some time ago. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he knew this was madness, that he never should have let it get this far. But he couldn't care less about that at the moment. It felt so bloody good, and he'd be damned if he was going to end this here and now. Instead, his hips moved as if of their own accord, pistoning forward in order to penetrate deeper into that wonderful, hot mouth. His hands once more thrust into Greg's grey hair, this time in order to tug him closer, wantonly reducing any bit of distance between them. Greg's tongue swabbed over him, soft and rough at the same time, inciting and sucking him while his lips continued to exert their unrelenting pressure, driving him mad. John's shoulder blades were the only part of him in contact with the wall anymore, his head now tilted to one side and his hips jerking rhythmically back and forth.

At the edge of his perception, he registered Greg grabbing hold of one of John's legs and slipping the other hand in between his thighs, his fingers running up the inside, sliding underneath his taut sac and brushing his perineum. A long, drawn-out, quivering moan rumbled in his throat when the fingers pushed past the ring of muscle. John's knees gave out when Greg stimulated the little bundle of nerves inside him as he let John's erection slip even deeper into his mouth. Seeking to steady himself, John put his hand on top of the dividing wall and held onto it as hard as he could. His whole body was on fire, his breathing shallow. The arousal was almost beyond what he could bear, and his desire for release gained the upper hand.

He moved incessantly, trying to intensify the friction inside him and around him, to take that final step that would tip him over the edge of insanity. Muscles contracted, hips and legs tensed. The arm he was holding himself up with trembled. He bit down hard on his lower lip when his orgasm rolled over him, barely able to suppress his moan, and leaned back in the corner of the stall, gasping.

Greg let go of him and clambered unsteadily to his feet. His knees obviously hurt, the marks from the tiles clearly visible on them. He leaned his forehead against John's, rested one hand on his cheek, and gently ran his thumb across John's chin. His eyes were still fevered, and made a shiver run down John's spine. John realised that Greg was rubbing his own erection, his breathing becoming more rapid. Still in the grip of the aftereffects of his own ecstasy, John looked back and forth between Greg's hand and his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, his teeth occasionally scraping his moist lips.

"Hng... I... want you so much..." Greg said gruffly, leaning close to John's ear, as his hand moved faster.

John's own hand shook when he placed it over the other man's heart, hesitantly, turned his head almost shyly toward him and brushed his lips across Greg's cheek. A gentle kiss on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, before Greg returned it. John inserted his tongue into the other man's mouth and kissed him hungrily, greedily, tasting himself as he did. He had a heightened sense of the shudders that shook Greg's body, the tension. He watched as Greg's eyebrows drew together, felt him suck almost painfully on John's lower lip as he came. His hand dug into the back of John's neck, holding him until his arousal slowly ebbed. Breathing hard, he stayed there with his forehead pressed against John's, unaware of his surroundings.

John stood very still, listening, waiting, trying to order his thoughts. Greg finally pulled away from him, turned the shower on, took a step back, and stood under the stream of water. He ran both hands through his hair and rubbed them over his face before looking at John and holding out one hand to him. John took one step toward him but didn't take the proffered hand, instead leaning lightly into it with his shoulder. The warm water felt good, heating his now cooled skin. Eventually, Greg stepped out of the shower, reached for the towel he had hung on a hook on the wall, and slung it around his hips. At last, he took down John's as well and held it out to him.

John turned the shower off and wrapped up too, then followed Greg to the changing room. He wanted to say something, but for the life of him he didn't know what. They dressed in silence and left the gym, locked the door, and dropped the key into the mailbox. They stood beside each other for a moment. John realised that Greg was searching for words just as much as he was, and it was Greg who ended up giving himself that final push.

"I'd like to see you again," he said, a faint question somewhere in his tone.

John looked off to the side and remained silent for a long time. He watched the reflections of the street light on the asphalt and bit his lower lip. Whatever was going on inside him, he didn't have words for it. It was a chaotic mess and at the same time eerily calm, as if he'd received the answer to a question he'd never even asked. Even if he didn't really know what it was about. At the moment, he simply enjoyed the feeling, not sure how long it would last.

"Okay," was all he said.

"Okay..." A smile flirted at the edges of Greg's lips, more tentative than usual but clearly visible. He nodded toward the car park. "I'll take you home."

John nodded and followed him.

 

+++

tbc

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

"Well? What do you think?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Of course it is. I expect you to confirm my conclusions!"

John silently eyed his flatmate. His arms crossed over his chest, he huffed in resignation and let his gaze wander over to Greg, as if to ask his permission. After all, he still had the say around here. Greg nodded curtly and looked back at the lifeless body lying between them.

"These injuries" – John pointed at the bare arms and the upper body, which were scattered with a myriad of long cuts – "weren't inflicted until after he was dead. Which doesn't mean he died quickly. This is what killed him." His right hand hovered over the victim's abdomen, where a small, dark hole gaped in the area of his stomach. It was where the eye had been removed from his chameleon tattoo, the head of which extended up to his sternum. The neck disappeared under the waistband of his blood-soaked cargo trousers, which probably concealed the rest of the reptile.

"He was slowly tortured to death. His hands were obviously tied down. There are marks from the bonds. His left shoulder's been dislocated..." John straightened and cleared his throat, discomfited. "His … eyes... well, it should definitely be possible to determine whether they were... removed... before or after death." He looked unhappily into the contorted expression on the dead man's face, the mouth flung wide open as if screaming, the dark, lidless sockets smeared with crumbling brown blood. He'd seen quite a few dead people before, but being confronted with someone who was disfigured to such an extent left him with a horrid, sickening feeling in his stomach.

Sherlock took his pocket magnifier out of his coat, crouched down beside the body with an elegant movement, and examined the eye sockets under magnification. John crossed his arms again and took a step back. He couldn't master the unsettled feeling in his gut. The pain the victim suffered must have been horrific. John realised his left shoulder was throbbing, the spider web of scars itching under the material of his jacket. Sympathetic pain. Memories of the war lurked at the back of his mind, pumping panic into his veins a drop at a time. Not enough to trigger the instinct to flee, but enough to multiply his sense of unease.

A side glance at Greg told him that the Detective Inspector was in turmoil beneath the surface. The case was hard on him. His eyebrows were drawn together, creating a ceep crease on his forehead. It was obvious that he was trying to sort through and analyse the clues at hand, to discover the story behind them.

"Well?" Greg asked Sherlock, his gaze fixed on the body.

Sherlock stood up, clapped the magnifier shut, and dropped it into his pocket.

"As John already said: obvious," he replied, cocking his right eyebrow upward.

"A ritual killing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently. "Of course not. There are no clues indicating anything of the sort. No religiously tinged symbolism, no arrangement of the tableau. Someone clearly had fun torturing the victim and inflicting the greatest amount of pain possible, didn't they, John?" John nodded, troubled. "The intention was for him to bleed out slowly... Maybe he was being interrogated. Or punished. He hung from the ceiling or some sort of apparatus for quite a while, was likely lifted up so that he couldn't reach the floor. Not here, of course, as no such mechanism is apparent and there's far too little blood. The dislocated shoulder probably stems from that. As for his eyes..."

Sherlock wandered about the room, taking large steps, pacing up and down between John and Greg and murmuring something unintelligible to himself. The other two men's eyes met, and for a momemt John's heart seemed to stop. He hadn't spoken to Greg since that night, and he'd been rather nervous when Sherlock received the call and they'd been driven to the crime scene. Nervous because he had no idea how he should approach the Detective Inspector. Especially because he was sure that Sherlock would inevitably deduce that something had happened between the two of them. Something that John still wasn't ready to admit to. On the other hand... what difference did it make? Whether Sherlock found out now or later, the result would be the same in the end. After all, John didn't owe him any explanations about his private affairs. Plus, he had Victor.

Later... later meant that John would allow himself to consider a continuation of whatever it was that had happened between him and Greg. Just then, Greg turned toward him and gave him an inquisitive look. John maintained the eye contact. The situation just then, standing between Sherlock and the victim of a brutal murder, couldn't have been less appropriate.

That was why John said, "I'll wait outside," and headed for the door, only to be stopped by Sherlock.

"Wait a moment, I'm done here anyway." The consulting detective gave Greg a searching look, glancing back and forth between him and John. "A ring, a cartel... or maybe just a gang. What's certain is that the members have a very tight-knit connection amongst each other, and a very low tolerance for troublemakers. Check out the tattoo, it may give us a lead. As I already mentioned, the victim wasn't killed here: not enough blood. We should find out where this... execution took place."

Greg grunted in agreement. "Is that all?" He couldn't miss the flash in Sherlock's eye, and he frowned in irritation. He might not be as gifted as Sherlock at deducing a person based on a look, but he had a nose for when someone was concealing something from him. Sherlock suspected something, Greg was sure of that, but apparently he didn't want to share his conjecture with the Detective Inspector. "You know something else, Sherlock?" he asked flat out.

A superior grin hovered at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Nothing that isn't lying right under our _noses_!" He looked at John and nodded toward the door as a signal that they were leaving. "Let me know when the autopsy results are in, _Gavin_ ," he called back into the flat.

"Greg!" roared the Detective Inspector, and slammed the door shut.

 

*****

 

John gazed out of the taxi, his elbow propped up against the door. He skimmed his fingers over his chin, lost in thought, trying to consider the images of the dead man and all the facts as neutrally as possible. He didn't understand how Greg and Sherlock could pursue this line of work day after day, unable to change anything about the fate of the victims. In his opinion, simply bringing the perpetrators to justice – if they could even be found – was an unsatisfactory compensation. At least being a doctor had always given him a chance at saving a person's life, even though there had been plenty of times when it wasn't successful. John couldn't say – didn't want to count – how many of his fellow soldiers he'd seen die in Afghanistan. It was only due to his sense of duty to the living that he'd been able to get through his time there.

Frustrated, he thought of his old army commander, Major Sholto, who had walked into a trap with a unit of crows. Too many young men had lost their lives that day, and James had never been the same again. The memory of his old friend gave John a twinge and made him feel an increased need to make contact with him again. The poor fellow had been the subject of too much hate and resentment after he'd returned to England. The loneliness – and John knew all too well how fickle a friend it was – had turned James Sholto into a hermit. Partly self-imposed, partly forced upon him, he lived out his exile in a small country house far away from the city, not even willing to receive friends there. John was the only exception, and it still took an enormous effort every time the former soldier went to see his one-time commander. The underlying feelings of guilt were the least of the reasons.

John looked up disconsolately from his hands in his lap and cleared this throat. He peered over at Sherlock, who sat beside him pursuing his own thoughts. Most likely, thought John, he was already assembling the pieces of the puzzle, analysing, filtering, and possibly even had an exact image of the killer in mind that only needed to be confirmed. At the same time, John hadn't failed to notice that Sherlock didn't seem to be very interested in helping Greg with his job. Of course he would solve the case anyway – after all, they were talking about people's lives here – but he was doing it grudgingly. The question was: _why_? He couldn't imagine that Sherlock's reluctance had anything to do with jealousy.

 _He didn't really ask me on a date... he was just winding me up_ , John thought, and wrung his hands anxiously. Without intending to, he recalled the kiss – he still didn't know whether it had really happened or was entirely a figment of his imagination. He would have to ask Sherlock to dispel any uncertainty. But if Sherlock really were interested in him – an utterly absurd notion – then... then... _He's my best friend!_ John swallowed hard at the idea that Sherlock might have carried a torch for him for a while now. On the other hand, he wasn't able to answer the question of how he might have reacted to any advances on Sherlock's part, if it had ever come to that. Or had there been attempts that John simply hadn't recognised as such? Sherlock's way of dealing with people was often so... anti-social and hostile that – especially for someone who knew him well – it was difficult to take unexpected behaviour like flirting with any degree of seriousness.

"What?" Sherlock suddenly asked, giving his flatmate a hard, sceptical look.

John opened his mouth to speak, but reconsidered and instead huffed with annoyance.

"I'm still not a mind-reader, John."

"D- did you..." _...kiss me?_ "...withhold information from Greg?" John swallowed hard, annoyed at his cowardice. He unconsciously squeezed his hand into a fist on his thigh, trying to endure Sherlock's piercing look and not disclose any of the confusion inside him.

Sherlock seemed to take time considering his response, or perhaps ignored the question entirely, since after staring at John for a while, he simply turned his head away and looked out the window. John's annoyance turned to anger. Whatever was going on between them, it shouldn't influence Sherlock's work, or that of Scotland Yard. It was entirely possible that other people's lives were in danger, and they should do everything in their power to prevent any further victims.

"Sherlock!" John pressed, but still didn't receive any response.

The taxi pulled to a stop on Baker Street, and John paid. He hastily exited the car and followed Sherlock to the door of 221B, laying a hand on his shoulder to hold him back.

"Sherlock! You can't just –"

The consulting detective shook John's hand off his shoulder with a jerk, went into the building, and straight up to the flat on the first floor. Huffing crossly, John followed him, taking the stairs two at a time, and burst into the living room. Sherlock had already laid his coat across the couch. He sat down at the desk, opened his laptop, and stared at the screen while he waited for the computer to boot up.

John took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Sherlock, if you have any information that might help the police catch whoever did this, you shouldn't withhold it. People's lives are at stake! Who knows whether the killer might have set his sights on the next victim and already be –"

"Unlikely," Sherlock said without looking up. "I've given Lestrade a tip that will take him to the next step. Even he should be able to find the gang responsible for the murder. The case is boring, now leave me alone."

His voice was calm but icy. His fingers flew over the keyboard, typing, clicking, and writing like a whirlwind, not taking any further notice of his flatmate.

John closed his eyes for a moment, seething, in order to collect himself. Sherlock was probably right... He couldn't say why he was so upset that Sherlock wasn't more interested in the case this time. Maybe it was due to the state of the body, which John had empathised so strongly with, or the forlorn expression on the Detective Inspector's face, having hoped to receive assistance from Sherlock.

John turned away and went into the kitchen to put some water on to boil. He heard the incessant clacking of the keys from the living room as he put teabags in the kettle and took two mugs out of the cupboard. When the water boiled, he poured it into the pot and waited while the tea steeped. Finally, he poured it into the mugs and went back into the living room. His anger had faded. He set down one of the mugs on the desk in front of Sherlock, muttered an apology, and sat down across from him to start up his own laptop. Sherlock followed him with his eyes until he sat down, then returned his attention to his screen.

 

*****

 

It was already dark when Sherlock's phone announced the arrival of a text message. John watched as his flatmate read the message, stood up, and reached for his coat.

"Where are you going?" he asked, just then realising he was hungry. A glance at the clock told him it was already past nine, and he hadn't eaten anything other than a small snack around noon. The body that morning had ruined his appetite pretty thoroughly.

"Out," Sherlock replied, shrugging on his coat and dropping his phone into his pocket on the way to the door. "Don't wait up."

"Why should I do that..." John muttered, but Sherlock must not have heard as his footsteps went down the stairs.

John stood up and went to the window, watching Sherlock exit the building. Downstairs – as expected – Victor was waiting, as usual with a smug grin on his face, which automatically raised John's hackles. _Bloody cock_ , he thought to himself. He'd picked Sherlock up every night since that first time he'd turned up. John didn't know where they went. He could have asked, but he didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong idea about his interest. Whatever _wrong_ meant in this situation...

John moved away from the window and went into the kitchen. A quick peek in the refrigerator revealed that they should have gone to the shops that day, since amputated thumbs were definitely not part of his diet. Unfortunately, other than those, the fridge hosted nothing more than a half-full carton of milk and an almost empty jar of jam. He let the door fall shut with a sigh and went back to the living room to peruse the menu of his favourite takeaway. After deciding on Chinese noodles and steamed dumplings, he called in his order, then sat down in front of the television to watch the news.

Just as he was wondering whether they would be reporting on the murder already, a background image of New Scotland Yard appeared with a passport photo of the victim superimposed. All of a sudden, it struck John: _blue eyes_ ; as if that answered a question he'd been unconsciously asking himself all day. As was to be expected, not many details were given on the case. A clip from the press conference was shown, which must have taken place earlier in the day.

"It appears likely that the killer or killers are part of an underground criminal organisation. We can't say any more at this point," Greg commented with a grim expression.

John reached for his phone and opened the text messaging app. He felt a need to send Greg a message, but didn't know how to start. He brooded over what to write for a long time, and what the point even was, until he turned off his phone and tossed it onto the couch next to him. He stared at the flickering television screen, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin resting on his folded hands. The weather segment of the news had come on in the meantime. It was supposed to be sunny the next day, with rain forecast for the weekend.

Coming to a decision, John groped for his phone and typed in a message.

_Are you busy?_

He stared at the screen nervously, as if that would help make the device respond. After several minutes, he finally tore himself away, kicking himself for his impatience, and set the phone aside.

When the doorbell rang, he got up and went down to answer it. Two warm cardboard containers and a bill were handed to him. He paid, said thank you, and closed the door again. He fetched an open bottle of water from the kitchen and sat back down on the couch, where he opened the first box. He tried some of the noodles with the chopsticks that were provided, then opened the second box to fish out a dumpling. From the television came the sounds of the opening music from some movie he didn't know. He shrugged and leaned back, scanning the names of the actors in order to get some idea of what was on.

A glance at his phone informed him that a message had come in.

_Sorry... still at the yard. Can't say when I'll be able to get away unfortunately. – Greg_

John sighed, surprised at how disappointed he was by the reply. He couldn't say exactly what his intentions had been. Did he want to get together with Greg? In a way, he did, but he wasn't sure what was supposed to happen then. It seemed completely ridiculous to start thinking about anything like a relationship. Aside from the fact that they barely knew each other on a personal level, John simply couldn't get used to the idea of being interested in another man. And yet... it had felt good. Being kissed by Greg, returning the kisses, being touched. The barrier in his head had simply melted away, and his body had reacted of its own accord. Instinct and lust. _God... and that mouth_... He bit down on his lip when he felt a suspicious twinge in his loins.

John growled grumpily and poked disinterestedly around in the noodle container. The film wasn't particularly exciting, and didn't manage to grab his attention; John gave up halfway through and turned off the television. He gathered up the remains of his dinner, went into the kitchen, and deposited everything in the refrigerator. In order to end the evening on a somewhat sensible note, John sat down in front of his computer again and checked over the blog entry he'd written that afternoon. Outside, thunder rumbled.

 

*****

 

John lay in his bed, tossing and turning from one side to the other. Rain beat against the windowpanes, drowning out the sound of his body moving against the mattress cover. The comforter had got twisted between his legs, making his limbs feel trapped, and he eventually freed himself and kicked it aside. He sighed, troubled, reached for his phone, and turned it on.

_2:47..._

The screen light faded, leaving an afterimage behind his lids for several seconds. He rolled onto his back again and ran his hands over his face. The exhaustion lurked inside him like a predator pacing back and forth in front of prey it couldn't reach. His head was buzzing. He couldn't pin down any thoughts, as if he'd had too much coffee and spun his mind carousel too fast. Or as if he were sitting in a high-speed train staring out the window in a vain attempt to recognise any details in the scenery whipping past.

And then there was the subliminal tingling in his stomach that kept spreading out to the rest of his body. He ran the palm of one hand over his chest and felt the frantic throbbing beneath his ribs. He sighed and let his fingers wander down lower until they reached the edge of his t-shirt. He pushed the material up and caressed his own skin. The hissing of the rain penetrated his consciousness but triggered a different set of images entirely. Images John had been thinking of for days now.

He could almost feel the warm water from the shower running over his shoulders; like fingers titillating his nerve endings. Real fingers sliding down his back. A deep sigh escaped John's throat at the memory. Not a dream, even if the incident seemed so distant, so unreal. He dragged his teeth across his lower lip, unconsciously scraping it to intensify the sensation.

The memory of the searing hot lips on his nape sent tiny electrical impulses down his spine. At the thought of how Greg had pushed him up against the wall of the shower stall, how his lips had forged their way down his neck, the tingling in his groin became stronger. When Greg had put his mouth on John's erection, the sensation had been indescribable. He'd wanted to push him away at first, but no sooner had that tongue begun to stimulate him than his resistance had melted away like ice cream in the sun.

Just thinking about it now made him hard. He stroked his erection with the flat of his hand, angling his leg up, and pushed into the friction without even thinking about it. He inserted his fingers inside the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, into his pants, and moved both layers aside to free his cock and get a hand around it without anything in the way. As he slowly stroked the sensitive skin, the episode in the shower replayed in his head on an endless loop. He started breathing faster when he looked down at his hand and recalled the image of the man whose mouth he'd thrust into over and over. Their eyes had met, pupils wide and filled with lust. John moaned softly.

Tensing his pelvis, he pumped into his fist, stepping up the movement of his hand. With his other hand, he reached under his balls and rubbed them almost too hard in an attempt to heighten the sensations. With uncharacteristic single-mindedness, he rubbed his perineum, jerking involuntarily into his hand, and recalled how good it had felt with Greg's fingers inside him, stimulating him. Heat shot into his face when he realised he wanted to feel it again. More than that. Fantasising about the other man penetrating him made his breath catch. He wanted to feel it, wanted to know what it would be like if Greg pushed into him over and over, dug his fingers into John's skin and bit him. Implacable, demanding. John's body stiffened as ecstasy washed over him in waves. He gasped, struggling for air as he climaxed, his head flung back and his teeth embedded in his lip.

The tension from earlier was replaced by a pleasant buzz, causing him to slowly relax. He stared into the darkness for a moment, listening to the sound of his own breathing. His heart was racing in his chest, slowing only gradually. At some point, he sat up, peeled off his sticky t-shirt, and wiped the semen from his stomach. He wadded up the shirt and threw it carelessly onto the floor, pulled his trousers back up over his hips, and went into the loo to wash his hands. Finally, he took another top out of the dresser.

He sighed, sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached for the water bottle on his nightstand. He drank from it while he gazed out the window. With his phone in his hand, he rolled onto his back again, scrolled down to the messaging app, and opened it. His thumb hovered indecisively over the screen for a moment before he started typing.

_~~I want to see you again.~~ _

_~~Can we meet?~~ _

_~~Do you have time?~~ _

_When?_

John pressed his lips together tensely when he sent the message to Greg. It was much too cryptic, and yet he didn't feel capable of telling the other man what he wanted. He set the phone back on the nightstand and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. The anxiety over when – or if – he would receive a response felt like a monkey crouched on his back, but he didn't think it would happen tonight. After all, it was already three in the morning...

He was thus that much more surprised to see the screen light up with a new text. He was almost annoyed at how quickly his heart leapt as he grabbed the phone and opened the message.

_You seem to be getting as much sleep as I am..._

_Tomorrow night? – Greg_

A smile stole onto John's face.

 

+++

 

tbc

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

The next day used up the last of John's nerves. In order not to get completely anxious thinking about the upcoming evening, he threw himself into his work. He barely left any time between patients and even worked straight through his breaks in order not to be left alone with his thoughts. When he had finally finished up the last notes in the patient files, he picked up the stack from the desk and brought it out to his assistant. He could tell from her expression that she wasn't well pleased about the extremely stressful day, so he made a quick apology.

He then got his jacket from his office and left the hospital. On the way home, he stopped off to buy a few things to fill the fridge. He was sure Sherlock hadn't taken it upon himself to do it, if he were even home. John hadn't seen any signs that morning that Sherlock had come back the night before. He was a little surprised that Sherlock was willing to spend so much time with this Victor. The whole thing seemed so out of character for his flatmate. On the other hand, John really couldn't say how Sherlock _normally_ behaved within a relationship – after all, this was the first time John had ever seen him involved in something like this. Still, he wondered whether and how long Victor was going to stick around. Whether the two of them were really something like an official couple, and Victor would become part of their daily routine.

_Not that I need to go looking for another flat..._

When John pushed open the door to 221B Baker Street and picked up the full grocery bags which he had set down for a moment, he saw Victor coming down the stairs. _Speak of the devil..._ John thought, unconsciously frowning. A moment later, he noticed that Victor wasn't smiling – unlike usual. Quite the opposite: his eyes were flashing angrily. John leaned against the open door to the building to let the other man pass by, and was struck by an icy glare. Irritated, he watched Victor leave then closed the door with his foot and went directly up the stairs into the kitchen.

While he put away the groceries, he glanced through the open archway into the living room. Sherlock stood by the window, staring out, his arms crossed. His shoulders were tense, his entire posture stiff. John filled the kettle with water and turned it on. Somewhat perplexed, he went into the living room, considering what he might say.

Had they rowed? Had a difference of opinion? To be fair, with someone like Sherlock that wouldn't be a rare occurrence, as John knew from personal experience... plus, Victor supposedly had known Sherlock a long time already, and was certainly familiar with his often unfortunate choice of words and lack of empathy.

John therefore simply asked, "Everything okay?", not sure whether Sherlock was even feeling guilty or not.

Sherlock turned to John and looked at him silently for a moment, then shrugged. "Fine," he answered and moved away from the window. He walked toward John and stopped an arm's length away. He looked as if he were waiting for the answer to a question he hadn't asked. Or as if he wanted to say something but was unable to find the right words, which didn't happen to Sherlock very often at all.

"Thanks for doing the shopping," Sherlock eventually said and went into the kitchen to check the contents of the Petri dishes that lay spaced across the kitchen table. John watched him, wondering whether Sherlock had ever thanked him for going shopping before.

 

*****

 

Freshly shaved and showered, John went into his room and pulled open one of his dresser drawers. It was still rather cool in the evenings, so he decided to put on his red shirt and take a jacket with him later on. He slipped into a pair of jeans, buttoned up his shirt, and took a deep breath. The anxiety had caught up with him. He went to his nightstand, picked up his phone, and checked the time. 5:37 PM. No messages. Since they hadn't made any further arrangements yet, John tapped out a short message.

_Where are we meeting?_

John stood by the window but didn't look out. His eyes didn't budge from the screen of his phone. He rested his forehead against the windowpane, cursing himself for acting so ridiculous. He wasn't a teenager anymore, yet he was behaving as if this were his first date. When no response had come in after several minutes, he put the phone in his trouser pocket and went down to the kitchen.

Sherlock, who was once more (or still?) hunched over the kitchen table studying his experiment, looked up briefly when John came in.

"If you're making tea, I'll take a cup..." he murmured as he entered some notes into his laptop.

John made an agreeable sound, filled the kettle, and turned it on. While he transferred some loose tea leaves to the teapot, an alert sounded and he hastily fished his phone out of his pocket. He scanned the message nervously. Greg suggested that they meet at eight in a pub located about halfway between Baker Street and New Scotland Yard. John didn't recognise the name so he looked up the address then sent back a brief confirmation. As he returned the phone to his pocket, he exhaled loudly, trying to rid himself of the tension. He hadn't realised Sherlock was watching him the whole time. The kettle clicked as it turned itself off. John poured the hot water into the teapot and went to the refrigerator to take out the milk.

"Plans?" Sherlock asked casually without taking his eyes off his screen. To all appearances, he was completely focused on his experiment, and John didn't make anything of the uncharacteristic attempt to make small talk. He met Sherlock's gaze briefly, but immediately turned to the teapot and grunted affirmatively. He didn't see Sherlock frown and quietly huff.

"A _date_ then," he said, exaggerating the pronunciation of the 't'.

"It's not a date," John replied, but didn't dare meet his housemate's eye. Whatever this upcoming meeting might be called, he didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to admit to himself that he was not only voluntarily getting together with Greg, but that he was the one who had initiated it. And the last thing he wanted was to reveal to Sherlock that he was additionally entertaining certain fantasies. He poured the tea into two mugs and set the sugar down next to the one intended for Sherlock.

"It's _not_ a date!" he repeated defensively when he saw how Sherlock was staring at him. He went into the living room with the steaming mug and sat down in front of his laptop to while away the remaining time. It was just shortly before six. Definitely too early – and thus far too much time – to be alone with his thoughts. From the desk, John looked over into the kitchen, watching for a moment as Sherlock extracted a sample from one of the Petri dishes with a scalpel and transferred it to a slide. Then he put a cover slip on and used a pipette to add a drop of water to be able to observe the sample under his microscope.

"Did you argue?" John eventually asked, picking up the conversation from earlier. "You and Victor..." he added when no response was forthcoming.

Sherlock lifted his head from his microscope and sighed without looking at John. For a moment, John thought he wouldn't answer at all until Sherlock reached for his mug and came into the living room too. He stopped in the middle of the room and sipped at the hot tea.

"I don't know... maybe. It doesn't matter," he said neutrally, shrugging a bit.

John wrung his hands anxiously. The whole situation was really weird. He hadn't actually wanted to talk about potential relationship problems with his flatmate, whom he had thought to be asexual until quite recently. Especially because he really couldn't call himself any kind of expert on the subject. It might be completely different having a relationship – or an affair – with a man than with a woman. Who made the rules? John kicked himself internally for being such an idiot. He could virtually feel the walls rising inside him, trying to prevent him from dealing with these emotions which were so new to him. The defences formed all on their own, standing in complete opposition to the fluttering in his chest and the butterflies in his stomach. He didn't know whether all of this was right for him, but he did know that he wanted to try it out; that he needed to try it out.

The fact that his best friend was revealing a new side of himself at precisely the same time, turning John's world even further upside-down, only served to increase his uncertainty. But as often as they bickered and got on each other's nerves, John didn't want Sherlock to get hurt or feel bad. After all, he was his best friend. One of the people he wouldn't hesitate to give his life for. If there were anything at all that he could do to help Sherlock, he'd try. Even if that meant making friends with Victor...

"Well... you two are a couple, right? So I think it's important that..." John tried to convince his flatmate.

Sherlock shook his head at that, smiling joylessly into his mug, and took another sip of tea. "We're not a couple, John. We just have sex."

Blood immediately shot into John's face, colouring his cheeks dark red. He took a breath to say something in response, but the words got stuck, and he turned away, clearing his throat. He hadn't expected such directness from Sherlock. He heard Sherlock chuckling quietly and closing the distance between them.

Sherlock set his mug down on the table, rested one hand on the surface, and leaned toward John. "Sex doesn't make a relationship..." Sherlock added, his voice softer and a couple of octaves deeper than before.

Goose pimples spread down John's back. He stared at the grain of the table top tensely, not daring to meet those ice-blue eyes. He'd never noticed before how velvety Sherlock's voice could sound... how warmly it vibrated across his eardrums and echoed beneath his ribs. He swallowed audibly.

"Sex," Sherlock repeated, completely aware of the effect the word seemed to have on John, "only satisfies one of man's basic needs... It triggers chemical reactions that release feelings of happiness... nothing more, John." He hovered there for a moment in unconventional proximity, then straightened again, picked up his mug, and went back into the kitchen.

 

*****

 

When it came time, John set off for the pub that Greg had suggested. It was a cosy little place, well attended but not overly full, so that they had no problem getting seats at a little table in the corner. It had been awkward when they greeted each other. Greg must have been able to tell John was nervous, it was just too obvious. His hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, his eyes skipping around, constantly chewing on his lip. Any kind of physical contact was out of the question, John couldn't even shake hands with the other man. His heart was thudding dully in his chest, his throat raw and dry.

_Get it together! This is ridiculous!_ he scolded himself as he followed Greg inside the pub. He caught himself using every opportunity whenever Greg looked away from him to inspect the other man. He had the strange urge to memorise every detail about him. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he lowered his eyes. The twitch at the corner of his mouth before he said something funny. The curiosity shimmering in his eyes when he'd asked a question and waited eagerly for an answer. The way his fingers caressed the rim of his glass while he listened attentively. John couldn't recall later what they'd talked about exactly. Small talk about their families and jobs... a couple of stories from Afghanistan, a couple of anecdotes about _Smax_...

Greg rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward a bit. He absentmindedly played with the cardboard coaster. His fingers ran through the drops of condensation that had collected on the edge of his glass. He'd drained half of his beer, whereas John had barely taken a sip of his. Even if he fully intended getting drunk, a voice in the back of his head warned him to hold back. After all, his last drinking session had cost him every last memory of that night. Something he didn't want to risk tonight...

"What... actually happened... that time?" he ventured to ask at some point. "I mean the last time we were out drinking. What... I mean..." A bashful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He reached for his glass, took a sip, and licked his lips. "What led to us kissing?"

John was becoming increasingly irritated by Greg's open expression, the provocative flash in his eyes. Still, he registered with a hint of satisfaction that Greg was tenser than usual. He wasn't entirely immune to the situation after all. For a moment, John was overly aware of Greg staring at his mouth. Without thinking about it, his tongue peeped out, wetting his lips.

"You still don't remember anything?" Greg asked rather than answering the question directly. John shook his head, hoping Greg would keep talking. "You wouldn't believe me anyway..." The mischievous smile accompanying the words caused a pleasant shiver to run through John.

"Try me," he responded, and all of a sudden he didn't know what to do with his hands. He didn't want to cross his arms, which would make him appear defensive. Finally, he rested his palms on top of his thighs and watched Greg as casually as possible.

"I don't remember how we got onto the topic... but we were talking about _first times_." Greg smirked at the memory of the ridiculous stories they'd shared. "Well, I had two versions: my first time with a woman and my first time with a man..."

John's throat suddenly went dry. He took another sip of his beer, then put it back down on the table and tilted his head to one side, as if to encourage Greg to keep going.

Greg cleared his throat and grinned again. "You told me you'd never kissed a man before... even if there were one or two other... things you'd done."

John's heart skipped a beat. Heat shot into his cheeks, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Had he really told Greg that story? The one he'd buried in the depths of his memory and never spoken to anyone about, even under threat of violence? Why would he have voluntarily told Greg, of all people?

Images rose unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Desert sand, unbearable heat, sweat. The taste of copper in his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek so hard he'd bled, just so he wouldn't betray himself with a sound. It was still easy to conjure up the face of the man who had knelt in front of him in the sand, both only barely concealed by a bare, crumbling wall. The split lips stretched around his erection, the rough tongue that had caused him to lose his mind more and more. John firmly swept the memory aside. He grunted uncomfortably, put his hand under his face to rest his chin on it, and watched Greg expectantly.

"At any rate, you thought you'd give it a shot if you had the chance, and... I offered you one," Greg concluded, winking as he took a drink of his beer.

"Why?"

"Why...?" Greg echoed, giving John an inquisitive look. His gaze flicked back and forth between John's eyes. "Why not..." he eventually said softly.

"I see..." John murmured into his hand. So he had initiated it... more or less. He closed his eyes in resignation and shook his head slightly, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Fine then, he had started it. So what? He looked over at Greg, tried to smile, and almost succeeded.

Greg snorted in amusement and leaned forward. "Because I fancy you, John..." His arm reached out, fingers gently caressing John's cheek and triggering a tantalising tingle. John turned his head a bit, nuzzling tentatively into the tender touch. Just a tiny gesture, an admission. He was overly aware of the blood rushing through his veins as his surroundings faded into the background of his consciousness.

"Should we go to mine...?" Greg asked, his voice thick. John nodded expectantly, feeling a certain amount of vindication at the fact that the otherwise so self-assured and worldly D.I. appeared to be experiencing a minor bout of nerves. They paid for their beers and left the place to walk in silence to Greg's car, which he'd parked two streets away.

When Greg started the engine, the radio came on, playing Billy Idol's _Rebel Yell_. The asphalt beneath them hummed along with the ‘ _more, more, more’_. The lights of the street lamps threw orange stripes across the bonnet and the dashboard. John dug his fingers into his thighs, oddly aware of the rough material of his jeans. The rhythm of his respiration had changed, becoming heavier, deeper, but by no means calmer. Quite the opposite. He turned his head toward Greg, let his eyes wander across the other man's face as he concentrated on the traffic. It was obvious that Greg was avoiding looking at him, even when they stopped at a red light. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Not in time with the song, but in time with both of their pulses.

When the car stopped, they got out and walked the few steps to the house. It was a small block with at most six flats, not at all what John had imagined as the lodging of a Detective Inspector. He recalled the divorce, which must have been finalised just a few months ago. Physical separation, moving house, alimony payments... of course.

Keys jangled, clumsily fumbling for the keyhole, missing it when John rested his forehead against the back of Greg's neck. The smell of leather and aftershave tickled his nose. A brief pause, Greg's breath catching, the heat emanating from his body... all of these small details elicited an unimaginable longing in John. He rubbed his forehead against Greg's shoulder.

"Come on," he whispered, heard the click of the door opening, and followed Greg into the darkness without moving away from him.

Greg turned around, pushing against the door at the same time, hard enough that it fell shut. He dropped the keys carelessly onto the floor and reached for John's face with both hands. Their mouths met in a kiss. Impatient. Fervid. Lips sucked lips, tongue slid across tongue, dancing, duelling. John's back bumped into the door with a muffled sound, and he gasped in both surprise and unbridled arousal. As if it had a mind of its own, his hand clenched around Greg's shirt and he pushed the other man away hard, only to follow him a moment later as he pressed Greg into the wall. The frantic heartbeat under his fingers was a tantalising invitation. His hand slid up to Greg's nape, through the short, wiry hair, drawing Greg deeper into the kiss which they had never interrupted.

Powerful arms wrapped around John's waist, hands slid down his back, his arse, grabbed on and pulled him up onto his tiptoes, as close as possible to the other man. Guttural sounds burbled out of his throat, his breath burned on his raw lips. Panting, Greg pressed his forehead against John's, his hand on the back of his neck. The sparse light that fell through a window from the street lamps somewhere was just enough to make out shapes. Reluctantly, he pulled away from John, feeling for the light switch. The entryway was flooded with warm light and they both blinked against it for a moment. When Greg saw John's reddened lips and tousled hair, he smiled faintly. He pulled off his leather jacket and hung it on the hook next to the door.

"Why don't you come in first?" he said, with somewhat less aplomb than expected.

John nodded weakly, took off his jacket too, and hung it up next to Greg's, then followed him into the flat.

The small space didn't house much in the way of furnishings and looked rather impersonal, not reflecting the personality of its owner. On the right side was a kitchen niche integrated into the living space. Greg went to the refrigerator, took out two small water bottles, and passed one to John. John took it, twisted off the lid, and hastily took a big drink without taking his eyes off of Greg. The tension between them was almost palpable. John set his bottle down on the counter and stepped close to Greg – so close that they touched – and examined his face, both observing and challenging.

He slowly ran one hand down Greg's chest, feeling it rise and fall with his breaths. He realised that there was nothing odd about the touch, that it felt quite natural. That it was exactly what he wanted. That it was just the beginning of all the things he wanted to do. There was a spot somewhere inside him that felt oddly empty and at the same time so full it was about to burst, a black hole that sucked in and consumed all the unnecessary thoughts. That reduced the two of them to the here and now.

Greg's hands stroked his face again and slid under his ears, drawing him into a deep kiss.

_More, more, more..._

 

+++

 

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A little inspiration](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdphvuyaV_I)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John didn't know which way was up anymore. Too many new impressions were mixed in with familiar details. Familiar yet completely different. Hands skimming across his bare skin, rough yet tender. Different. Lips, tongue, teeth, wandering over his body, seeking and exploring. Different. Desiring and being desired with an intensity that robbed him of his senses. Different. The motion of the muscles beneath his hands, the hardness and angularity of the other body. Different.

He gasped for air, panted, sighed as Greg's hands pulled the last of the obstructive layers of clothing from his body. Excitement and arousal made him tremble. Blood rushed like water through his veins and in his ears. Somehow, they'd managed to make it to the little adjacent bedroom, freed themselves of all their cumbersome clothing, and now rolled around naked between the sheets.

John's tongue skittered over Greg's neck and collarbone. He kissed his way across Greg's chest, which rose and fell with his audible breaths. Curious fingertips traced every line and curve, skated over hipbones, felt their way along Greg's erection. Familiar and yet completely different. The skin nestled warmly into his hand. A catch of breath, a quiet sigh, a tensing of hips to intensify the sensation. Just observing all of these small reactions sent electrical impulses down John's nerve pathways, excluding any possibility of him ever wanting to do anything else.

Greg's scent clouded his senses; the taste of his skin was bewitching. John tentatively ran his tongue along the erection in his hand, enjoying the shudder of the body beneath him. The voice in the back of his head, by now shrivelled away to a mere whisper, said he should find this strange. But he ignored it completely, enclosed the erection with his lips, and let it slip into his mouth.

The faintly salty taste combined with the musky smell fanned the flames of his arousal even further. Eager to experiment, he tested how far he could go, how deep he could let it penetrate before his throat protested. As unpractised as he was, however, that limit was quickly reached. He used his tongue and lips to stimulate the sensitive skin. It was intoxicating. Incredible. He loved every little twitch that followed in reaction to his actions, every sound that Greg made. His stomach flipped when he looked up into Greg's face. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, reflecting arousal and bliss in equal measures.

Greg slid his fingers into John's short, blond hair, watching him with half-lidded eyes. He let out a low moan. His hips moved as if of their own accord, seeking to increase the irresistible friction. The sight of John, his reddened lips, his playful tongue dancing around Greg's glans, kept tossing him back into the rush of arousal. Although John didn't have much experience, he more than made up for his lack of technique with his enthusiasm. The fact that he had insisted until very recently that he had absolutely no interest in men and was now titillating Greg with such eagerness did the rest.

"God... John..." Greg gasped, breathing hard. John let go of him and looked up. And how fantastic he looked. There was still a trace of uncertainty in his expression, but he had it under control. Curiosity and arousal definitely had the upper hand. John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tried to regulate his breathing, and leaned over Greg to kiss him. Wrapping his arms around John, Greg rolled him onto his back and moved on top of him to deepen the kiss. He pressed his groin into John's, demanding, as he sucked and nibbled gently on his lips.

John's hands moved incessantly over Greg's heated body, digging into his skin. He wanted to tear Greg apart, sink his teeth into him, taste him. He wanted to get to know every fibre of his body, to conquer it, consume it, in full awareness of the fact that this madness was mutual. His body seemed to have a mind of its own, wrapping around the other man, drawing him close, surging toward him. The sensation of the erection pushing against him, touching it with his fingertips again and again as if by accident, made his head spin as if he couldn't understand what was happening. He moved against Greg in order to counteract the almost painful arousal, but that only made it more rampant.

"Touch... me..." John gasped between two breaths, one hand on Greg's nape, his nails digging into his skin.

Greg looked into his eyes for a second then lowered his mouth to John's skin again and licked up his neck, eliciting goose pimples and a pleasant shiver. Propped up on one elbow, he ran his free hand down John's chest, stomach, and hip, leaving red lines in its wake. He stroked John's stiff cock, spreading the fluid that had gathered at the tip, listening to his quick, sweet breaths. John's unsteady gaze met Greg's, followed by a barely noticeable shake of the head. Understanding flared in Greg's eyes. Leaning over to one side, he reached for something on the nightstand and handed it to John with a mischievous smirk. Shame bubbled up in John, colouring his already pink cheeks a shade darker. He opened the lid of the tube with his thumb and squeezed out some of the gel onto Greg's outstretched fingers. Greg kissed him gratefully then looked down at his hand as it disappeared behind John's testicles.

John drew in a shaky breath when Greg's fingers stroked his perineum and anus, stimulating the sensitive skin. He drew one leg up to give himself more freedom of movement, rocking his hips a bit to increase the cautious friction. He hesitantly stroked his cock the way Greg had before. His body trembled, and he was overly aware of Greg's erection throbbing where it pressed against his thigh. Greg's face hovered directly over his, their lips less than a centimetre apart. They shared breath, each getting lost in the other man's widened pupils.

John gasped inadvertently when a single digit slipped inside his body and his muscles contracted as if electrified. He stretched his neck, bridged the last few millimetres between their mouths, and kissed Greg, impatiently catching his lips and seeking out his tongue. Overwhelmed, he concentrated on the still unaccustomed feeling which Greg set off in him. Arousal flooded over him when the finger inside him touched those highly sensitive nerves, making him groan wantonly.

"Yes..." he sighed, his eyes closed, adjusting the movement of his hand to Greg's rhythm. It was almost too much. He was tingling and buzzing all over. He knew he couldn't take it for long. His body was virtually begging for release. With a mixture of lust and astonishment, he registered Greg inserting a second finger into him, relentless, demanding. Greg's lips on his skin, hot breath that singed. Teeth leaving red streaks behind, marking him. But John didn't care about any of that. He wanted more, more, more. Wanted to come, to let himself fall into this insane feeling of lust. For just a moment, he wanted nothing more than to feel Greg inside him. The thought alone was enough to make everything in him contract. Throwing his head back, his body tensed almost to the point of pain. His lips parted, but only a silent groan escaped as he came.

Still breathing hard, he enjoyed the buzz running through his limbs. Greg slid his fingers out of him and kissed his way slowly across John's shoulders, his neck, his cheek, until John turned his face toward him and returned the kiss. John realised with a modicum of guilt that Greg's erection was still poking him hopefully. He slipped his hand in between their bodies and caressed Greg with the back of his fingers. But Greg shook his head, bumping John's shoulder with his nose.

"Turn over..." he whispered.

Something in John clenched up. Arousal and a hint of worry spread through him, not certain what Greg had planned for him. Still, he did as he was asked and rolled onto his stomach, his face turned to the side toward Greg, and waited. Greg sat up so that he was next to John, taking the weight off the shoulder he had been holding himself up with this whole time.

He slung one leg across John's thighs so he could reach across him for the tube of lubricant that still lay on the bed, and squeezed some of the gel out onto his hand. He hastily spread it over his erection. John tensed up noticeably when Greg leaned forward, letting the man underneath him clearly feel his arousal. With his tongue, he skated up John's spine to his nape as he slowly rocked back and forth between his arse cheeks. He rested his face against the back of John's neck, ran his teeth over John's shoulder and licked the salty skin. John relaxed gradually once he realised that Greg was just rubbing against him to continue the stimulation. If he hadn't been so exhausted, it probably would have made him lose his mind entirely.

It was both shocking and exciting to be confronted so aggressively with another man's lust, to feel desired in that way. His heart raced in his chest as he moved against Greg to increase the friction and tensed his muscles to arouse him further. Greg reacted with a moan that baldly conveyed his pleasure. He clenched one hand into John's hip and rocked into him relentlessly. When he came, his semen spread warmth between them. Drained, he let himself fall to the bed next to John, reached into his hair and gently ran his fingers through it. John turned onto his side to face Greg, dropped a soft kiss onto his shoulder, and closed his eyes.

They lay still beside each other for a long while. Fingertips caressed languidly cooling skin in slow motion, unwilling to end the contact. It wasn't until the mattress moved beside him that John realised he'd dozed off. Greg sat next to him, drinking water out of one of the mini water bottles he must have fetched from the kitchen.

"You want to shower?" Greg asked softly, and John noticed that he smelled of soap. He'd apparently been gone for longer than he'd thought.

John propped himself up on his elbows, rubbed his eyes, and grunted affirmatively. He would actually prefer to continue sleeping rather than shower, but since he was all sticky he thought it wise to accept the offer. On the way to the bathroom, he noted that Greg had picked up the articles of clothing they'd carelessly scattered across the floor, and laid them across the couch.

The bathroom was as small as his own back on Baker Street. The shower, sink, and toilet were arranged in such a way in the tiny space that it was just barely possible to pivot around his own axis without bumping into anything. John turned the water on, suddenly quite grateful for having decided in favour of the shower. He soaped up, leaned his head against the cool tiles for a moment, and closed his eyes, exhausted. The images and impressions of the past few hours danced in his mind's eye. He felt good – very good, in fact – and the thought made him smile.

When he was clean, he turned the shower off, stepped out, and dried off with one of the two towels that hung on the wall. He slung it around his hips and went into the living room. Indecisive, he stood next to the couch and looked down at the pile of clothing. He wasn't sure whether he should go home or simply get back in bed with Greg. He hadn't thought any further than the point at which they would become more intimate with each other. Now that it had happened, John didn't know what to do with the situation.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he flinched automatically. He hadn't heard Greg come out of the bedroom to check on him. Hands slipped around him and locked over his chest.

"Don't even think about leaving..." Greg said softly, pressing his face into John's damp hair.

Grunting his agreement, John nodded once and laid his hand over Greg's. The heat radiating from the other man's body calmed him greatly. Greg released him from the embrace but didn't move away from him altogether, instead gently nudging him back into the bedroom. He nodded at the bed, walked around it, and flipped the cover back. John let the towel drop to the floor, crawled under the cover, and rested his head on his arm. Greg moved closer, brushed some strands of hair off his forehead, and smiled at him.

"I'm happy you're staying..." He kissed John briefly, turned the light off, and nestled the back of his hand against John's chest.

Lost in thought, John ran his thumb over Greg's wrist until sleep overpowered him and he finally drifted off.

 

*****

 

Years of military service had made John an early riser. His internal clock was always ticking and woke him every day at the same time, no matter how long he'd slept. He opened his eyes and rubbed his face with his right hand to dispel the tiredness. The realisation suddenly hit him that he wasn't at home in his own bed, but rather in Greg's. Memories of the previous night rose to the surface and manifested in a pleasant flutter in his stomach. He turned his head to the side and saw Greg, who lay with his back to him, the cover drawn up to his hip. His gaze wandered over the shape of Greg's back, the curves of the bones and muscles outlined beneath his skin. He reached out one hand to the other man but stopped before touching him. It was still quite early, and he didn't want to wake him. Instead, John flipped back the cover and got up. It was even difficult for him to stay in bed and relax, overcome by restlessness and the drilled-in urge to spring into action.

He padded quietly into the living room, pulled on his pants and t-shirt, then went to the bathroom to relieve himself. Afterwards, he went into the kitchen and had a look around. In addition to an electric kettle, Greg owned a coffee maker which he apparently made frequent use of. John couldn't actually find any tea, but he did find three different kinds of ground coffee. He shrugged indifferently, took a filter out of the box and inserted it in the machine, which he then filled with water and turned on.

Holding the little water bottle he'd left there the night before, he leaned against the counter and looked around the space. In addition to the couch, there was a green armchair that had seen better days and a small CRT television that stood provisionally on top of a wooden crate. A narrow bookcase, half-filled, stood against the wall behind the couch. In front of it was an open cardboard box with some more books. John skimmed the titles as he drank his water and waited for the coffee.

When it was ready, he took two mugs out of the overhead cupboard and filled them. He realised he had no idea how Greg took his coffee. He'd seen him with a cup in his hand dozens of times at the Yard or at crime scenes, but had never wondered whether he took milk or sugar. _Sherlock would probably know..._ he thought and glanced into the fridge. There wasn't any milk there, but that didn't mean anything. However, since there weren't any milk cartons in the bin either, he could probably assume Greg didn't drink milk. There was a porcelain sugar bowl next to the coffee maker, which answered the question of 'whether' and posed 'how much'. _I should just ask..._

He went back to the bedroom and got into bed next to Greg. He was still sound asleep, breathing calmly and evenly. An odd feeling coalesced in John's chest. His insides were throbbing hard, tearing at him as if trying to draw him down into an abyss. His head was alarmingly empty and quiet, yet something seemed to lurk in the background, just waiting to jump into his field of vision. He couldn't explain what the feeling was, couldn't say whether it was good or bad. Somehow, it was both frightening and exciting.

He slowly leaned over until his nose and lips touched skin and could absorb its smell. He closed his eyes and laid his arm across Greg's waist, nestling in close to him. The heartbeat under his ear echoed pleasantly in his head. _So that's how it is..._ He didn't know exactly what he meant by it, but it felt good, familiar.

A barely noticeable jerk shook Greg as he woke. Grumbling sleepily, he turned toward John. John automatically started to back off, but Greg wrapped his arms around him and drew him close.

"Where are you going...?" he mumbled, his eyes still closed. He pressed his face into John's hair and sighed happily.

A smile on his lips, John put his arm back around Greg's waist and cuddled up again. His fingers glided lightly down Greg's back as he slowly drifted back asleep.

_Strange..._ John thought, _it's strange how good this feels..._

 

*****

 

The coffee in the mugs was cold the next time they woke up and finally got out of bed. Luckily, the machine had kept the rest of the coffee warm in the pot. And so John discovered that Greg took one spoonful of sugar and really did go without milk. He enjoyed drinking tea but preferred strong coffee to wake up.

"I shouldn't drink so much of the stuff, really. My sleeping pattern is already crazy enough, especially with so much overtime... but I hardly need to tell a doctor that," Greg said to John, who was leaning against the counter beside him.

John nodded and smirked into his mug. "You're right about that. Maybe I'm lucky, since I can shut down at the drop of a hat and sleep whenever the opportunity arises. The only thing is that I always wake up at five in the morning – no chance of changing that. Unfortunately..." John explained and took another sip of his bitter drink. He definitely preferred tea.

Greg came to stand in front of John and inserted his right leg between John's knees, moving closer so that their hips touched. He gently deposited a kiss on John's temple. "Nice of you to lie back down with me..."

"You didn't exactly give me a choice," John retorted with a grin, tasting the coffee on Greg's lips. His stomach seemed to swoop. There were no words for how much he liked being kissed like this. Spontaneous, unprompted, possessive. He put his hands on Greg's hips and stroked Greg's stomach with his thumb, pushing up under the material of his t-shirt. Warm.

Greg's fingers gently moved up his nape into his hair, grabbed hold, and tilted John's head a bit to one side in order to expose his neck. With the tip of his tongue, he followed the throb of John's pulse up under his ear and took his earlobe between his teeth. John shivered with the caress and his breath caught. He unconsciously dug his fingers into the skin beneath the t-shirt.

"You taste so good..." Greg growled and dragged his teeth down the sensitive skin of John's neck. He boldly crowded in closer to John, probed between his lips with his tongue, and sucked on them. John could barely keep up with the assault on his senses, with the lust that had just been waiting to step out from the shadows. He returned the kiss hungrily, hugged Greg, and pulled him close. His arousal grew, sending desire through his veins where it glowed hotly and made him hard. He wanted more, so much more, and at the same time there was that feeling of tension trying to drag him back down to earth. Was it fear? Fear of opening himself up to this new experience, of fully committing to it?

John let out a low moan when Greg's hands slipped under his t-shirt and dug into his skin, trying to systematically take him apart. His head dropped to Greg's shoulder with a sigh.

"Greedy..." Greg teased him softly, a mischievous grin on his lips.

"Shut up," John retorted, feeling caught out. He wanted to say so much more, wanted to challenge, demand, plead, urge. Whatever was necessary to still the restlessness inside him. Last night seemed so far away; it only served to ramp up his desire and shake the foundations of his world a little more. Nothing seemed to fit anymore in the picture he'd had of the world his whole life. And what a high that was! He leaned toward Greg to kiss him. Pressure and softness in turns, gentle and rough. A wonderful symphony of contradictions. Ambivalence in a thousand colours.

A phone rang.

Greg inhaled sharply, incredulous, and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, I have to take that..." he said and went to the coffee table, where his phone lay. He turned it on and held the device to his ear. "What is it? … Yes... Who? … Okay, got it... Yeah, yes, I'm on my way." He cursed and threw the phone down on the couch, then turned to John with an apologetic smile and genuine regret on his face. "Sorry... that was Donovan. There have been some developments in the case... I have to go to the Yard."

"Always ready to serve, even on the weekend," John said and shrugged, making Greg laugh. He pressed one more kiss to John's lips then went into the bedroom to get dressed. John stood in the living room for a moment more, a little at sea, then followed his example and slipped into his clothes.

Greg took a detour to Baker Street to drop John off at home. When he stopped the car, he leaned over to John and caressed the back of his neck affectionately. He wasn't going to kiss him again. It had been hard enough to leave the flat together.

"Will I see you tonight?" he asked instead. "I don't know when I'll get off, but I can pick you up if you like."

John felt the stirrings of an inconvenient embarrassment. Sitting here in the car with Greg, the man whose touch he longed for even now, was strange and a little threatening, in a way. He felt watched, judged, excluded, even though none of the pedestrians passing by showed so much as the slightest interest in the car or its occupants. He therefore just nodded silently and got out.

At the door to 221B, he turned around once more and raised his hand to say good-bye, then watched as Greg drove away. He went inside the building, climbed the seventeen steps up to the flat, and entered the living room.

Sherlock lay on the couch in his dressing gown, his hands folded over his chest and his eyes closed.

"Hello, John," he said in a monotone without looking up.

"Sherlock." John took off his jacket and tossed it onto the armchair, then went into the kitchen to boil some water. He missed his morning tea. "Do you want a cup too?" he called out, then started when he realised Sherlock had followed him into the kitchen. "I didn't hear you..." he said with an awkward smile and continued preparing the mugs.

"You were with Lestrade." Not a question, a simple statement. John hadn't pretended to himself that he could keep the situation secret from Sherlock, so he didn't even try. Curling his lips, he nodded curtly without looking at his flatmate.

"I see."

Silence filled the space between them. The water started boiling and the electric kettle turned off with a click. John didn't move. Eventually, Sherlock reached for the kettle, brushing John's arm in doing so, and poured the water. John stayed standing there right next to him, looking down at his hands where they rested on the counter top.

"Listen..." John began and took a step to one side to create a bit of distance between them, "I know this is all rather... sudden... and surprising... and..."

Sherlock cut him off with a humourless snort. "Less surprising than you think," he said tonelessly.

John licked his lips and turned toward Sherlock. He scratched his temple, uncertain, grasping for words, even though he had no idea what he even wanted to say.

"Is... is everything okay between us? I mean... we're... friends, right? You and I. Same as before. Yeah?"

Their eyes met. Nothing was okay. Sherlock nodded and turned away. He took a step forward, stopped as if he'd forgot where he was going. As if he'd changed his mind. As if he were suddenly standing in a stranger's flat. John's eyebrows drew together as he realised the chaos that raged inside his friend.

"Sherlock..." he said, his voice barely audible, "was the... invitation to a date the other day... was that serious? Did... did you... kiss me that night when I was so drunk?" It was incredibly difficult for him to pose the questions, as he didn't know whether he wanted to hear the answers.

A smile that didn't reach his eyes found its way onto Sherlock's lips. "It doesn't matter... it's fine."

"Sherlock..."

"No, John... let's... just forget the entire thing," Sherlock concluded and walked past his flatmate to get to his room.

Reacting on the spur of the moment, John reached for his arm to stop him. "Sherlock, please... what's going on? What does this all mean?" he asked, his voice fluctuating between anger and desperation. Of course he had some idea what was going on with his friend but he needed to hear it from him to be absolutely sure. The kiss, the invitation... he would have to be blind and deaf not to understand that Sherlock was interested in him. And yet he didn't want it to be true. He hoped a little that he was wrong, that this was all a huge misunderstanding. A joke.

"You chose him," Sherlock said calmly, his voice barely above a whisper.

John let go of his arm. He closed his eyes as the weight of those words sank into his consciousness.

"I didn't realise I needed to make a decision," he responded hollowly, turning his face away.

"No, of course not, it's not as if there were any clues!" Sarcasm dripped from every word, boring into John's skin like thorns.

He swallowed hard at the thought that all of his friends and acquaintances, even those who weren't part of their inner circle, had always assumed he and Sherlock were a couple. Was he discovering that even Sherlock had believed it? Or had he simply got used to the idea after it had been insinuated from all quarters?

"What's that supposed to mean, Sherlock? Did you ever... make it _clear_ that you... what?... that you're in _love_ with me?" John asked, just a little too loud, a little too forceful.

"I thought... I assumed that..." A pained sigh squeezed out of Sherlock's throat. He ran his hand over his face, his forehead, gripping his tousled curls as if seeking an anchor. "I'm not good at things like this... let's just.... let's forget about it..."

John pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb and took a deep breath. "Who are you kidding, Sherlock? It's not like this is just going to disappear."

"Give me some time, that's all. Your friendship is... worth so much more to me than... whatever it is that I feel. Stay... just stay here, all right? I don't want you to leave..."

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I wasn't planning on leaving because of this..." he replied in a placatory tone. In a certain way, he was relieved that Sherlock didn't want to abandon their friendship. He couldn't possibly say how much his friend meant to him, even if his feelings were of a different sort than Sherlock apparently wanted. It was impossible to say whether they'd be able to deal with it in the long run. But he desperately hoped so...

 

+++

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

Following the discussion with Sherlock, there was no way John wanted to spend the whole day on Baker Street. Beyond that, it still wasn't certain when – or whether – he would see Greg again, so he decided to pack up his things and go to _Smax_. He felt Sherlock's eyes on his back the whole way down the stairs. The detective probably assumed he'd packed a few things to spend the night with his boyfriend. He wasn't entirely wrong, but that wasn't John's primary purpose at the moment.

_Boyfriend_... what a strange word. John wasn't exactly comfortable with the term, and didn't think he needed to be. In a way, he was still in an experimental phase, not sure whether all of this was really what he wanted. Of course he could admit now that he had a sexual interest in Greg, and if he were completely honest, it wasn't exactly minor. But to make more out of it than was really there wasn't his intention. At least not right now.

Additionally, he didn't know what Greg thought of it all, and John felt it would be ridiculous and premature to bring it up with him. Even if they were just having a lark with each other, that would be completely legitimate. Despite the voice in the back of his head that said it would be a shame if that's all it was.

He hailed a cab, got in, and gave the address of the fitness studio to the driver.

Worrying himself to death over this whole thing apparently wasn't getting him anywhere. Somehow, fate seemed to do whatever it wanted with him anyway without him being able to exert much influence. Maybe it was just a capricious twist that had made Sherlock blurt out his confession right now. The changes in John's life also seemed to have prompted him to rethink certain things and face the fears he'd been avoiding up to now.

If Sherlock had even been in love before – John still couldn't precisely say. Whatever had happened between him and that Victor Trevor since John had seen Victor storming out of the house, he hadn't shown up again as far as John knew. He couldn't deny that he would have liked to know more about the two men's relationship, but he didn't think it was a good idea to ask Sherlock about it and perhaps rip open wounds that had just barely scabbed over.

Maybe whatever was going on between them was a kind of love, even if other people might not have called it that, since it deviated from the norm. Who could say – other than the two of them? At any rate, it was _interesting_ to see that Sherlock – who had seemed to be so aloof when it came to other people – was turning out to be so different from what John had assumed at first. He sighed, realising that the term 'interesting' in this case seemed pretty heartless. After all, Sherlock was only human just like everyone else, with his own rough edges and flaws. John had never been able to verify whether he was correct in his suspicion regarding a tendency toward Asperger's.

Maybe this was all simply nothing more than a form of self-protection which Sherlock had constructed over years of painstaking work. Like a wall that screened him from emotions. Internally as well as externally. In that case, it was hardly surprising that this kind of defence would take on a certain life of its own sooner or later. John couldn't say, under different circumstances, whether he would have had the strength to face tearing down those walls, battling the highs and lows that would necessarily have gone along with it.

Nonetheless, he hoped that Sherlock would eventually find someone who would take on the difficult task. _I'm definitely thinking too much about things that are none of my business..._ Of course Sherlock was still his best friend whom he cared about almost too much, but right now, John had enough on his plate with himself and his newly discovered emotions. He couldn't – and didn't want to – deal with his best friend in that way right now.

The taxi pulled up at the Port of London. John paid and got out. He walked to the warehouse where _Smax_ was situated and went in. As usual for a Sunday, the hall was quite full. Point matches were underway in both of the rings, and a few teams were busy sparring or warming up around them before it was their turn.

John strode through the hall to reach the locker room. There, he changed into his gym clothes, took his sparring gloves and mouth guard out of his bag, and locked the bag in one of the lockers.

Back in the main hall, he hurried to get to one of the rowing machines that had just become free in order to warm up. As he let his gaze wander amongst the other athletes, he nodded to a couple of them in greeting, but mostly concentrated on himself. It was definitely too busy today.

"Hey, John, how are things? Long time no see."

John looked up and saw Phil, whom he'd fought a match against a few weeks ago. He unconsciously ground his teeth. Not that he had anything against the man, but he still bore him a grudge for having apparently honed in on John's war injury to use it against him. Behaviour like that indicated a person's character, and he didn't seem to be the nicest bloke.

"Hi, Phil. Fine, thanks. I've had a lot to do lately..." John replied, forcing himself to smile without stopping his rowing motions.

"What do you say... up for a rematch? It would only be fair!" he said and winked impishly.

Since John didn't have a good counterargument to decline the challenge, he nodded once. "Sure, but I doubt we'll get a chance, as busy as it is today."

"Not a problem. The referee in the left-hand ring is a friend of mine and promised I'd be up next if I could find a partner. So what do you say?" He punched his fist into the palm of his other hand at chest level, a triumphant grin on his lips.

John stopped his exercise, straightened up, and rolled his shoulders to loosen up a bit. Together, they went over to the rings. Phil gave his friend a hand signal, and they watched the rest of the current fight before climbing through the ropes.

Gloves were tightened, helmets put on. After John had inserted his mouth guard, he nodded to the referee and Phil, and started bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The fight was chaotic and hot-headed. Neither John nor Phil let their defences down. Instead, one quick combination was followed by another, meaning that both were breathing heavily when they separated at the end of the first round without having gained any clear points. John's muscles burned with the tension. He could feel the strength of the other man's punches in every bone. An exhilarating feeling.

A smile stole onto his lips when he saw that Phil was also having fun with their exchange of blows. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all, John thought, and pounded his fists together challengingly. The whistle sounded to start round two, and it was as equally balanced as the first one had been. However, both contestants implemented their own specific techniques to a greater extent, trying to find weak spots in the other man's defences in order to finally make some points.

John skilfully blocked a side kick, inserted his arm under Phil's knee, and leaned his weight forward to knock him off balance. With the same motion, he kicked at the leg Phil was standing on, making him fall. His attempt to follow up with a punch was just barely thwarted by Phil. In retaliation, Phil's fist shot forward and hit John hard in the chin. Dazed, John stumbled back but got himself upright, if wobbly, just in time to ward off the next attack.

Shaken by the hit, John didn't see the edge of Phil's hand coming from the left, and the blow was barely cushioned by the helmet when it hit his head. He was overcome by dizziness, the world around him tilting to one side, such that he couldn't get out of the way of the subsequent roundhouse and landed hard on the ground. The air was knocked out of his lungs, and pain screamed in his left shoulder. A buzzing and tingling ran down his whole arm and up the back of his neck, only to be replaced by a heavy, throbbing pain a moment later.

Cursing, John struggled to his knees between the referee and his opponent. Fortunately, Phil had correctly assessed the situation right away and broke off the fight rather than pressing his attack.

" _Fuck_... that didn't look good. You okay?" he asked, crouching down beside John to take a look at his shoulder.

Clenching his teeth, John turned toward him and nodded curtly. He removed his mouth guard with his right hand, pulled his sparring helmet off his head, and let both items fall to the floor beside him.

"It'll be fine... but looks like the match is over..." he replied, squeezing his eyes shut in pain and probing his shoulder. Beneath the material of his t-shirt, he could feel the scar tissue, which seemed to be on fire. The numb feeling stood in stark contrast to the pain, and he rapidly considered whether the injury might be more serious than he thought. Someone held out a small blue gel pack, which the referee appeared to have retrieved from the adjacent office without John having noticed.

He stood up with difficulty, took the gel pack, and held it to his shoulder. A shiver ran down his back, starting at the cool spot. A short while later, the cold had dulled the pain a bit, but increased the sensation of numbness in the affected arm. He picked up the mouth guard and helmet, climbed through the ropes – which Phil held apart for him – and headed for the changing room.

"Hey," Phil called, stopping him, "I'm really sorry! Should I call a doctor?"

The corners of John's mouth twitched. "It'll be fine. I'm not an orthopaedist, but I don't think anything is seriously wrong. It'll go better next time, and I'll be the one putting you on the mat," he said and tried to smile, but didn't quite succeed.

Phil nodded in acknowledgment and followed him into the changing room. "Can I help with anything?" Phil asked, watching as John opened his locker with one hand and dragged out his sports bag so he could rummage around in it.

"I can manage..." John murmured, but a moment later another searing pain tore through him. The jeans he had wanted to take out of the bag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

Phil reached down helpfully and picked them up, holding them out to John. "Getting changed is going to be hard... you really seem to be in a lot of pain. Sure I shouldn't call a doctor?" he asked with a hint of worry in his voice.

"Yeah, can you get my phone out of the trouser pocket?" John asked, pressing the cooling pack onto his shoulder again.

Phil did as he was asked, extracted the device, and handed it to John. John pushed the cooling pack up onto his shoulder to balance it there, took the phone, and scrolled through his contacts. A moment later, he hesitated. His initial impulse was to send Greg a message or ring him directly, but it was only a little after four and the Detective Inspector was most likely still at work. John bit his lip as he thought, holding the phone to his forehead.

Phil made a sound as if prompting John to continue what he was doing, but John just looked at him and shook his head slightly. All of a sudden, he felt very tired; he sat down on the bench dividing the aisle in two and sighed.

"Don’t worry," he said to Phil, "I'm just resting for a second. It'll be better in a moment."

Not particularly convinced, Phil leaned against the locker with his arms crossed and looked John over reflectively. "I came by public transport, otherwise I'd offer to drive you..."

John only said, "Hmm," his thumb still hovering over the phone screen. Maybe he should just call a cab and go back to Baker Street? Call an end to this whole bloody day, toss back a couple of painkillers and lie down? He wet his lips, finally tapped out a few words, and clicked on 'Send'.

Barely twenty seconds passed before his phone signalled the arrival of a text; just a few seconds later, another one came in.

_Everything ok? Are you hurt?_

_I'm on the way._

John smiled faintly. The bit of guilty conscience that flared up in the back of his mind because he'd bothered Greg at work was replaced by a pleasant tingling sensation that spread through his belly. Was that silly? Wrong? Selfish? He didn't know, and at the moment he didn't really care either. He tried to struggle into his jacket with some difficulty, in order to be protected at least a little from the cool spring temperatures. He slid his right arm into the sleeve, then Phil helped him to pull the jacket up over his injured shoulder, leaving the left sleeve hanging uselessly at his side.

"Thanks," John said and stuffed his jeans back into the sports bag, letting Phil zip it up.

Together, they walked through the main hall to the outer door and went out. It was drizzling, and a cool breeze blew around John's bare calves. He sighed, let the bag drop to the ground, and leaned on the wall next to the entrance.

"Did you call a cab?" Phil asked. The fact that he thought so both pleased and irritated John in equal measures. It was probably mostly due to his feelings of guilt, but it did raise Phil several notches on John's niceness scale. Sometimes the first impression you got of a person wasn't the right one. John tilted his head to one side and smiled.

"Something like that..."

The drizzle started getting stronger, but the projecting roof above the entrance kept the two men more or less dry.

"You don't have to wait with me," John said to Phil, sticking his right hand under his jacket to massage his painful shoulder.

"It's fine."

"How long have you been a member here anyway?" John asked.

Phil leaned his head back and pursed his lips as if he had to think hard about his response. "About two years, I think, so pretty much from the beginning. This place has changed a lot in that time, though. At first there were just a few of us who had fun fighting without being subject to the usual rules. That didn't go well for very long; I mean, you need at least a few rules... otherwise we probably would have all killed each other sooner or later." He chuckled dryly. "Not many are left from the original group. Shame, actually..." He shrugged and smiled at John. "You like it here with us?"

John nodded. "Yeah, it's just what I needed. After I got back from Afghanistan, I couldn't walk without a cane... you've no idea how liberating it is to really let it all out here, to have all my senses working together and know everything's still functioning."

Phil watched John silently for a bit, then grunted in agreement and gazed off into the distance. "That's pretty much how a lot of us feel..." he said eventually. He asked John a few questions about his tours of duty in Afghanistan and his work as a military doctor, listening attentively, but didn't divulge much about himself.

When Greg's car finally pulled up to the open space in front of the warehouse and the Detective Inspector got out, it was raining cats and dogs.

"Thanks for keeping me company," John said with a smile and turned away to walk toward Greg, who hurried toward him.

"Everything all right? What happened?" Greg asked with concern, putting his hands on John's upper arms.

"Nothing much. Probably overstretched my shoulder when I fell. I don't think anything's torn."

Greg wrapped his arm around John's shoulder, and they walked to the car together.

They completely missed the disparaging look shot in their direction.

 

+++

tbc

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

It was still raining when John and Greg left St Bartholomew's Hospital and got into the car. Greg hadn't accepted any excuses and had driven straight to the hospital, even though John insisted the pain wasn't that bad. He didn't want to admit his shoulder was throbbing as if someone had stabbed a knife into it and left it there. It would get better with a painkiller and some rest.

In fact, the orthopaedic specialist had said the same thing, wrapping it for him and prescribing strong painkillers. John had also been given a new cooling pack, which he was still holding on his shoulder. Before John could do anything, Greg opened the passenger door for him, waited until he'd got in, and closed it again before getting in on the other side.

Greg's coat was soaked from the rain. After John contacted him at the Yard and asked Greg to pick him up, this was just one more item on the list of things John felt guilty about. Of course while they were in the waiting area, Greg had insisted he was about to take off for the evening anyway, but John didn't buy the Detective Inspector's statement. After all, they were working on a fairly important case, and if he knew Greg at all, he'd put in any overtime necessary to catch the perpetrator as quickly as possible.

John sighed. "I'm sorry..." he said, rubbing his right hand against his thigh to warm it up a bit. Since it was holding the cooling pack most of the time, it was ice-cold and numb by now.

Greg turned toward him with an inquisitive expression.

"...that you went out of your way to come to Smax for me and drove me to the hospital... in this weather, no less! A taxi would have been..."

A hand slid up the back of John's neck and turned his head. Warm lips pressed against his mouth. John's heart skipped a beat, surprised and overwhelmed at the same time. He returned the kiss, leaning over to Greg to be closer to him. Fingers curled into the short hair at his nape, tender and firm. The rain splattered down incessantly on the windscreen, shielding them from the outside world like a veil.

"Don't worry about it," Greg said, his voice rough, once he'd succeeded in pulling away from John's lips. "I was really in the middle of packing up when I got your message."

John, still dazed from the kiss, just nodded. When Greg started the motor, he leaned back, adjusted the cooling pack on his shoulder, and looked out onto the street which became visible in time with the windscreen wipers before the deluge hid it again. He realised Greg was hesitant to drive away.

"Where should I bring you?" he finally asked with a sidelong glance at John. Their eyes met and held, questioning, searching, like a wordless dialogue.

"I don't want to go home..."

A smile found its way onto Greg's lips, and he drove off. John kept watching him, fascinated by how taken he was with him. It was a very strange feeling, spreading through him and latching on with barbed hooks in and under his skin. A feeling he no longer wanted to go without. He felt the urge to touch the other man, so he reached out his hand and let it rest on Greg's thigh, slowly rubbing his thumb over the rough material of his trousers.

When they stopped at a red light, Greg rested his hand on top of John's, gently caressing the back of his hand. A gesture of affection carried out so naturally that it simply took John's breath away. All of these small things left their marks inside him – like footprints in wet sand that filled with saltwater when the sea rolled in.

Greg parked the car not far from his flat. They got out and hurried to get inside where it was dry. Greg set John's sports bag down next to the couch and swung his coat off his shoulders to hang it in the closet.

"Bloody foul weather," he muttered as he helped John take off his jacket. No sooner had he hung that up as well than John moved in close to him, wrapped his right arm around Greg's hips, and pressed his forehead into the crook of his neck. He rubbed his wet hair against Greg's cheek, the scent of rain and damp clothing hovering between them. Placing his arms around John, Greg kissed the strands of hair sticking to his forehead.

"Everything okay?" he asked, surprised that John wanted so much to be close to him. John looked up at him and smiled, nodding a moment afterwards. He leaned up and kissed Greg softly. Greg reciprocated the kiss without hesitating, cupping John's face with both hands and slipping his tongue in between his open lips. John's fingers unconsciously clenched around Greg's shirt, his fingertips skittering up his spine beneath the cloth.

"I just wanted to see you again as soon as possible," John said breathlessly between kisses. "I couldn't help it... It's just..." He shook his head, a resigned smile on his lips. He took a step back without letting go of Greg. "I don't know either... do you have a glass of water for me? Then I can take the painkillers."

"Of course," Greg replied without reacting to John's previous statement. He took his shoes off then went into the kitchen and took down two glasses from one of the cupboards. He took a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, unscrewed it, and poured some water.

"Do you want anything to eat? I'm starving..." Greg asked, pushing one of the glasses toward John.

They ordered pizza and peeled out of their wet clothes while they waited for the delivery. John removed the bandage from his shoulder so that he could shower, then rewrapped it afterwards with Greg's help. The doorbell rang while Greg was in the shower, so John answered it, accepted delivery of the flat cardboard boxes, and paid. He carefully balanced them as he made his way through the room, put them down on the coffee table, and sat down.

The painkillers were beginning to work, meaning that the searing pain was slowly becoming a dull throb. John turned on the television, stopped on the news, and heard Greg turning off the shower in the adjacent bathroom.

"Oh, the pizza's here already, great!" Greg said when he came into the living room. He sat down next to John and they ate while they listened to the weather forecast then watched the film that came on next.

At some point, Greg fell asleep with his arms crossed over his chest. His head slipped onto John's intact shoulder, and John put his arm around him and pulled him closer. Somehow the situation was quite intimate, but more than welcome. John couldn't explain why it was suddenly so important for him to be close to Greg, but he was glad that his inexplicable behaviour was accepted without comment.

When the film was over, he woke Greg gently to chivvy him into bed. He swallowed another painkiller along with some water and took the bottle with him into the bedroom. Greg blinked groggily when John got into bed beside him, then grunted appreciatively when John cuddled up to him. A short while later, he'd fallen back asleep.

John watched the face of the man beside him for a long time, stroking his cheek and jawbone with his fingertips, oddly aware of the scratchy feel of the stubble. He leaned over and kissed him gently. _I think... I may be falling in love with you..._

 

*****

 

Precisely at five a.m., John woke up, opened his eyes, and sighed. Was that ever going to change? He got up and went to the bathroom, then into the kitchen to boil water and take another pill. He took a cardboard box out of his sports bag, extracted a teabag from it, and hung the bag over the side of a mug. Once he'd drunk his tea, he sat down in front of the television and watched the start of a morning talk show, but quickly decided it was too empty-headed.

He took a book from Greg's bookcase and returned to the bedroom, where he got back into bed so he could read. When he realised he'd grabbed a murder mystery of all things, he had to grin. It was kind of ridiculous that a Scotland Yard police officer was reading murder mysteries. As he read, he listened to Greg's deep, steady respiration. It had a calming effect on him, and it wasn't long before he set the book aside and cuddled up to the other man's warm body.

Gentle kisses to the crook of his neck woke John a couple of hours later. He sighed happily, still half asleep. His eyes closed, he slid his right arm over Greg's shoulder and drew him closer. Greg kissed his way further up John's neck to his ear, teasing his earlobe with his lips and the tip of his tongue. At the same time, his hand found its way underneath John's t-shirt and lazily stroked his stomach and chest.

He slung one leg over John's, nestling in close and sucking on the sensitive skin of his neck. John's heart rate increased rapidly and his breath caught. He ran his fingers through Greg's hair, caressing his nape. Velvety heat bloomed between their bodies. Rough and tender at the same time, Greg licked from John's collarbone up his neck to his chin, where he deposited a kiss. John opened his eyes, tilted his head back, and met Greg's dark gaze and gentle smile.

"Good morning..." Greg said softly, brushing the tip of his nose against John's cheek, kissing it, then letting his lips wander across John's temple, eyebrow, and forehead.

"Morning..." John replied in a murmur. The exhilarating tingling in his body increasingly displaced the sleepiness, combining with the adrenaline in his veins. He drew the Detective Inspector close. Greg moved so he was on top of John and sighed contentedly as he sucked hard on John's neck.

"You let me fall asleep next to you on the couch..." Greg murmured without stopping what he was doing.

John grinned impishly, rubbing his cheek against the other man's head. "I'm semi-invalid anyway... and would hardly have been... useful in any capacity," he replied, increasingly distracted by the studious lips.

Greg nibbled on his earlobes while his hands continuously stroked the warm skin beneath his t-shirt, as if he couldn't get enough of it.

"You're full of it... I would have made certain you relaxed properly... Although..." Greg suddenly pulled back, sat up on the edge of the bed and turned his back to John. "I don't want your injury to get worse. Or for you to feel... forced into anything..."

Annoyed, John stared at the back of the man who had just been cuddling with him. He couldn't understand why the Detective Inspector had distanced himself from him so abruptly, and didn't want to simply accept the withdrawal. His fingertips gently touched Greg's bare back, running down the groove delineating his spine. John sat up so that he was at right angles to Greg, glad that the other man couldn't see his grimace of pain.

His jaws clenched, he suppressed the sound that lurked in his throat, making it into a quiet sigh as he pressed his lips against Greg's shoulder and closed his eyes. He had a notion what Greg meant without putting it into words directly. He was probably having the same thoughts as John regarding their sexual activities. The fact that Greg was being considerate of him, not wanting to overwhelm him and letting him decide on the next step, was certainly well-intentioned. But John also found it intimidating.

He didn't know how to let Greg know that he wanted more, that he'd been constantly thinking about feeling out his own limits for days now. But the fear was very real that he might disappoint Greg because he said he was ready for more than he could give; it made his throat feel tight. Even worse was having to admit to himself that he wasn't the same person he'd thought he was, and hadn't been for a while now. That his attitude toward having sex with another man had done an about-face of at least 179 degrees.

A small, lingering bit of doubt still flickered in his chest, and he secretly hoped that Greg would simply demand more from him. Memories of the night in which Greg's nude body had rubbed against his, when the heat between them had been almost unbearable, when he'd felt the other man climax, manifested themselves in his mind's eye, stealing his breath away, and he exhaled shakily against Greg's shoulder.

"Everything okay?" Greg asked softly.

"Yeah..." John whispered, his voice thick. The tip of his tongue peeked out as if of its own volition, feeling its way boldly across the warm surface of the other man's body, while the fingers of his left hand danced uncertainly along the waistband of the anthracite-coloured boxers that Greg wore. As if in slow motion, Greg slid his knee onto the bed so he could turn toward John. Their faces were close, their eyes riveted on each other's parted lips. An eternity passed, seeming to gnaw at them, before their lips touched. Soft. As if to simply prove that they were both there, no pressure, no demands whatsoever.

Greg scooted back a little on the bed so he could prop one arm up behind John, who still sat a little offset behind him. They kissed. Again. And again. Gentle, unhurried. John felt his pulse like a drumbeat inside him. He inched closer to Greg and kissed down his shoulder, his neck. Supporting himself with his right arm between Greg's legs, he let his lips wander over the other man's chest, greedily inhaling his scent, his taste. Now leaning on his elbow, he slid his lips down to the edge of Greg's boxers.

Hands stroked his back, his nape, and then in reverse. Unsteady, alternately gentle and rough, as if Greg were having difficulty controlling himself. Greg leaned back, supported on his elbows, and allowed his head to loll against John's thigh. His breathing was shallow, his eyes were closed, and he was enjoying every little touch. John's fingers nervously slipped inside the waistband of his boxer shorts, plucking at the material until Greg lifted his hips and he was able to remove them.

He promptly kissed his way across the body parts that were thus exposed, brushing Greg's half-hard penis, eliciting a soft sigh from both men. John experimentally ran his tongue down Greg's cock, fascinated by the shudder that quivered through him. He was only half aware of Greg's hands moving toward his torso and unerringly removing the clothing which separated them from his hips, even as he let Greg's erection slide into his mouth.

Greg copied his action, pulling John closer to him, deeper into his mouth. His tongue ran tirelessly over John's hot skin; he licked and sucked with determination, felt John's moans vibrating around his own erection. As for John, he couldn't concentrate on what he was doing any more. He was too distracted by the arousal which Greg drew forth from him, progressively gathering in his loins. He gasped a little and put his forehead down on his arm between Greg's legs. His hips jerked forward impatiently in order to penetrate further into the moist heat. When he came, he forgot about the pain in his shoulder and clung to Greg, groaning into the sheets under him. A few moments later, he moved away, panting heavily, only now registering the hands caressing his legs affectionately. He rolled onto his back and looked at Greg, slightly dazed. The other man smiled conspiratorially.

"That wasn't planned..." John murmured with a guilty shrug.

"Planned?" Greg had a hard time holding back a chuckle. He sat up and turned around so he could lie next to John, head to head, and bumped him with his nose. "I couldn't help myself... your reactions to my touches are just too irresistible." A grin spread across his face when he noticed the hint of pink on John's cheeks.

John moved away and got up, then turned to face Greg and gave him a challenging nod. "Come here," he ordered him, letting his gaze slide over the other man's stretched-out body.

Greg did as he was told and scooted to the edge of the bed, put his feet on the floor, and looked up into his lover's face. With a single motion, John pulled the t-shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. He sank down onto his knees, rested his hands on Greg's thighs, and leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth. Greg returned the kiss, holding John's head and locking their gazes; hesitant, as if he wanted to say something, yet he didn't speak.

John kissed his way back down Greg's neck to his neglected erection, promptly wrapped his lips around it, and teased the head with his tongue. Greg sucked in air loudly then let out the same restrained sigh that had driven John mad the first time he'd heard it. Encouraged, John redoubled his exertions. He had to admit that he enjoyed the feeling of the erection in his mouth and the reactions he was able to elicit from the other man. The first time he'd tried it, he'd been much more insecure and hadn't dared to continue until Greg climaxed.

This time was different. He wanted it more than anything, wanted to see what it felt like, how it tasted. Greg supported himself with one hand on the mattress, the other rested on John's nape. His breath came in huffs, interrupted by low, lust-infused sounds. John lips and tongue moved persistently over his erection. When Greg felt that he'd passed the point of no return, he gently squeezed John's shoulder, unable to put his warning into words. But John continued undeterred. He slung his right arm around Greg's hips and let him slide deep into his mouth. He felt Greg tense, felt the erection between his lips pulse as he came.

Surprised by the volume of semen, John swallowed instinctively before pulling away from Greg. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at Greg, a little shy, but he still had his eyes closed and was trying to get his breathing under control. When he opened his eyes, he grabbed the back of John's neck and drew him in for a deep kiss, ran his hand through his hair and rested his forehead against John's.

"Thanks..." he whispered, making John chuckle in amusement.

"My pleasure!"

 

*****

 

Two painkillers and several cups of tea later, John rubbed his abused shoulder. He was kicking himself for having strained it too hard that morning, but at the same time he had to smile. _If that wasn't worth it, what was?_ he asked himself, emptying his cup.

Greg came out of the bedroom, fully dressed, and sat down next to him on the couch. "Wanna do something?" he asked, taking a biscuit from the plate on the coffee table.

"Suggestions?"

"Weather's nice... we could go to the park or get something to eat," he proposed, giving John a quizzical look from one side.

John smiled and nodded his consent. "Sounds good. How about Indian?"

Greg was in agreement. They decided on a restaurant, put on their jackets, and left the flat. The previous day's rain had been replaced by bright sunshine. Only a few isolated clouds hung as if forgotten in the sky.

After they got into Greg's car, he started the motor and manoeuvred the car out onto the street. They'd scarcely gone a hundred metres when the car behind them honked and flashed its headlamps several times.

"What the...?" Greg glanced into the rear-view mirror, reduced his speed, and finally stopped.

Bewildered, John turned around in his seat and saw Sally Donovan jump out of the grey car and run toward them.

"Sir!" she called, even as far back as she was, as if they hadn't seen her already. When she got to the car and was able to look through the side window, she did a momentary double-take, puzzled, but immediately brushed off her surprise.

"Another killing. Everything points to it being the same perp as the chameleon bloke..." she explained, giving the Detective Inspector an expectant look.

Greg's expression darkened. His eyes filled with pure fury as he clenched his hands convulsively around the steering wheel. Gritting his teeth, he turned to John, and for a fraction of a second, regret was reflected on his face. Before Greg got any ridiculous notions of apologising for his career and its attendant duties, John spoke up.

"Should I call Sherlock? This is sure to interest him..."

Greg nodded gratefully, turned to Sally, and asked where the crime scene was. She gave him the address so that John could inform Sherlock, then returned to her own car to follow the two men.

_On my way. SH_

A simple answer to the question of whether Sherlock was interested in a potential serial killer. After all, those were his favourite cases, even if John had always looked on his passion with mixed emotions.

Barely twenty minutes later, they arrived at a block of flats in Haggerston. It was already surrounded by police officers preventing curious passers-by from entering the building. Sherlock would still need a few more minutes to reach the scene, so Greg went ahead to see what they were dealing with. John decided to wait outside for his flatmate.

When the black cab pulled up not far from the building and the lanky detective emerged, John raised his arm to get Sherlock's attention. Sherlock automatically flipped up the collar of his coat and walked toward John, his expression serious. John had difficulty stopping himself from rolling his eyes. At least Sherlock had left his blue scarf at home; it was much too warm today for Sherlock's favourite outfit.

"John," Sherlock said in greeting. John couldn't help noticing the way his flatmate ran his eyes over him at high speed, observing even the tiniest detail and drawing conclusions about everything John had done that day. He pursed his lips in a scowl. It wouldn't do any good to try and keep anything from him – not that he would have. Still, he didn't like the fact that it left him feeling virtually naked.

"It looks like it has something to do with that other recent murder. Remember? The man with the chameleon tattoo."

"Of course I remember. I never forget anything," Sherlock retorted unnecessarily as he let his gaze drift across the police officers on the scene. "Let's go in."

Together, they went up the stairs to the second floor and walked down the corridor to the flat with two police officers standing in front of it. Sherlock gave them a grim look, and they allowed him to pass through without comment.

The furnishings were simple, and it didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that a woman lived here. Probably single, no children. John's eye fell on a couple of photographs hanging over the sideboard. They depicted a sailboat, a smiling man, a sunset, and a Middle Eastern cityscape.

Sherlock went ahead to the living room, where the victim must be. Before John could even take a glimpse inside, he realised that Anderson and Sally must be there, reacting hostilely to Sherlock as usual. He heard Sherlock factually summarising what he saw as John continued to examine the picture of the city. Somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen it before.

He tried to prepare himself internally for what he would see in the living room. The last victim had got to him more than he wanted to admit. He wasn't about to drop out, but he wanted to at least be prepared.

"Cuts on the arms, gaping wound in the abdomen... she also had a chameleon tattoo, albeit not as large as the first victim. Perhaps a means of obscuring the relationship between the members of the crime ring."

John took one last deep breath, then went into the room and glanced at the scene. Then stared, wide-eyed. The woman on the floor had wavy brown hair framing her face in greasy strands. Dark circles under the eyes in her corpse-white face. Her olive green tank top had been cut down the middle, exposing her breasts. Her stomach had been wiped clean after someone had stabbed her with a sharp instrument, ensuring that she died a very painful death.

The aforementioned tattoo was of a chameleon, about twenty centimetres long, with a tail that curled around her navel. The creature's head nestled into her waist, and the claws seemed to be holding on to her hip bones, which peeked out from her low-waisted boxer shorts.

Her clothes, the furniture, and the carpet were spattered with blood, but as with the first victim, there was too little for the deed to have been carried out here. Her legs had been crossed over each other and her sliced-up arms extended on either side to form a T.

John felt as if a dark hole had opened up underneath him. At the edges of his perception, the doctor in him realised that he was shaking and hyperventilating. His ears buzzed. His vision blurred. Blasts went off around him. An incredible heat beat down on his back and shoulders. It wasn't the sun. Those were no cries of joy that reached his ears. Dying screams. Blood. So much blood.

He collapsed, felt his knees hit the floor hard. Mere moments later, strong hands reached for him and words were shouted into his ear, but he couldn't understand them. The whimpers slowly, slowly dissipated. He blinked a couple of times, once again able to make out shapes that existed here with him, in this room, in this reality. Greg and Sherlock, both holding him, worried, speaking to him.

"...'s wrong?!"

"… hn... John?!"

John struggled to lift his chin and glanced over once more at the woman who lay less than a metre away.

"I... know her..."

 

+++

tbc

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

Dazed, John stared into the golden-brown liquid in the white porcelain cup with the floral design. His hands lay folded on his lap and felt oddly useless, as if they weren't part of him. He registered the other men's presence, but they were utterly without consequence. A meaningless detail on this sunny Sunday in the middle of London. And yet John didn't feel as if he were in Great Britain, in safety, far, far away from the battlefield he'd had to endure for so many years.

He didn't understand why the sight of the dead woman had reminded him of his time in Afghanistan, of all things. Was it because she'd served too? Because she'd been injured in the line of duty and sent home too? The Royal Marines... they'd never met before John had set foot in that sports studio. They'd hit it off immediately, chatted about all manner of nonsense, exchanged stories, drunk coffee.

She was nice. He'd never tried to hook up with her, but he'd thought about it more than once. He knew she didn't have any kids or contact with her family. Similar to him, her relationship with her relatives was rather cool and reduced to the bare necessities. Someone would have to inform them.

"Bridget Tanner... She... was a member at Smax..." He raised his eyes and sought out Greg, needing a moment to comprehend that he was sitting right in front of him. "Before you were there. We were friends... sparring partners... then she didn't show up anymore. From one day to the next. I don't know what happened to her. I don't know..." He couldn't help his gaze fogging over again. Memories of the body danced before his mind's eye. The doctor in him analysed the facts, cold-blooded, adding up the wounds, the pain, the cause of death.

"John..." Greg's hands rested on top of his. They were pleasantly cool. "John, I'm terribly sorry..." he said softly, rubbing his thumb over the back of John's hand, "but I have to get back... to the crime scene... I'll come back here as soon as possible, all right?" He stood up, dejected, stuffing his fists into the pockets of his jacket. He'd imagined this day going much differently. Seeking help, he glanced over at Sherlock, who was observing him silently.

"I'll stay with him..." Sherlock responded to the unasked question.

Greg nodded. "Okay, sorry... I'll hurry."

When Sherlock heard the door fall shut, he got up and reached for the saucer on the table, balancing it with the untouched tea on his way to the kitchen.

"Would you like another cup, John?" he asked lightly, filling the electric kettle with water. He dumped the cold tea down the drain and dropped a fresh teabag into the cup. Then he came back to the living room and stopped in front of the coffee table, where he looked down at his flatmate, uncertain about what he should do. Comforting people wasn't one of his strengths, but seeing John in this state was worse than acting socially incompetent.

"John?" He used a calm voice to try and get John's attention, but remained unsuccessful. It looked as if he'd retreated into some halfway realm again. Sherlock knew that John had seen countless victims and bodies already, in part because he'd fought in a war. A war against the death of his fellow soldiers. How often had he lost that battle? Had the memories returned of those losses he'd suffered through so many times?

The empathy that John felt at the sight of a crime victim had always fascinated Sherlock, right from the very start. Although he had no connection whatsoever with the deceased, it was easy for him to immediately summon up a personal connection to them, to feel sorry for them, to grieve them. It was sometimes a mystery to Sherlock how he still managed to pursue his line of work. Not that he wouldn't be able to himself – quite the opposite.

But John's sense of compassion seemed to Sherlock to be an insurmountable obstacle that represented his greatest weakness. And perhaps his greatest strength. The sound of the kettle clicking rang out, but Sherlock ignored it, instead sitting down close to John on the couch. Shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg. He also ignored the twinge in his chest.

"John..." he repeated, in a voice so low it was barely audible. He still didn't receive an answer. Unsettled, he placed his arm around the mentally absent figure, gently drawing him closer. His flatmate's body rested apathetically against him. Blond hair brushed his face. Sherlock drew in a shaky breath. He felt all too clearly – and inconveniently – how everything in him was reacting to the other man. He'd been admonishing himself for weeks to get these bothersome feelings under control, to suppress them and lock them away somewhere deep inside.

With the singular exception of the little game that Victor had played with him, he'd forbidden himself from imagining what it would be like to touch John. He was still going back and forth with himself on the subject, feeling guilty even though John knew nothing about the incident. Thanks to the increasingly clement weather, he hadn't missed his grey jumper which Sherlock still hadn't returned to him.

The whole affair would never come to light. He would never admit to anyone that he had continued to sleep with the jumper in his arms for several days afterwards.

Sherlock sighed discontentedly. None of that could be allowed to matter right now. John's wellbeing was the only thing that was important at the moment, even if Sherlock thought he understood no more than a fraction of what was going on. The victim, Bridget – he knew how important it was to John to maintain a victim's identity and not treat them as faceless objects – had been in the Royal Marines, but John hadn't met her in Afghanistan; instead, it had been in that ominous sports studio. Of course Sherlock had deduced a while ago that John was working out, but had assumed it was a run-of-the-mill boxing club based on the occasional bruises and haematomas. He'd have to do some more research.

"I should have stopped it..." John whispered.

Sherlock, surprised by the statement, squeezed his shoulder gently. "You didn't have any contact with her, John. You couldn't have foreseen it," he tried to reassure him.

"Did you see her eyes?" John asked, his voice still small.

In fact, Bridget's eyes were the first thing Sherlock had noticed when he entered the living room. Just like with the first victim, two black holes had gaped beneath bloodless, waxen lids. Sherlock had catalogued the information, but what had left the greatest impression on him – and what John probably hadn't even realised in his shock – were the needle and track marks on her arms, the discolouration in the crook of the right-handed woman's left elbow, and the unusually callused skin of her palms and fingers.

He'd seen those signs often enough in crack addicts. They were all too similar to the marks which cocaine had once left on his own body. He swallowed the lump that was stuck in his throat.

"That hurts," John said tonelessly and closed his eyes.

Sherlock realised he was clinging to John more than embracing him. He felt the bandage beneath the material of his shirt. Murmuring an apology, he withdrew his arm and rested his elbows on his knees, folding his hands. John still leaned into him.

They sat silently beside each other for a long while, listening to the ticking of the clock and the noise of the traffic. Listening to their synchronised breaths. At some point, John stood up as if he'd awoken out of a deep sleep and went to the door of the flat, opened it and paused. He slowly turned to his flatmate, whose body heat he still felt along the right side of his body.

"Thanks... Sherlock."

Then he climbed the creaking stairs to his own room. Sherlock watched him go. He'd never felt as alone as he did at that moment.

 

*****

 

A deep blue darkness surrounded him like a cloak. His body was as heavy as a rock, and just as numb. Only the constant throbbing in his left shoulder reminded him that he should take a painkiller. But he didn't feel like it. Outside, he heard cars driving along the asphalt of Baker Street. The light from the headlamps sporadically lit up the little room. Now and then, he heard noises from the lower floors of the building.

Sherlock talking to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock climbing the stairs and standing outside his door, but not knocking or coming in. Sherlock going back down to the living room and starting to play his violin, only to stop after a few measures and lay the instrument aside. Quiet. The wind rattling at the windows. Sherlock making a phone call.

At some point, John had already fallen asleep but awoke when the mattress beside him sank. An arm wrapped around him, a body nestled in close to his. Lips tenderly brushed the back of his neck. He squeezed the hand that laid itself on his chest, rubbed it with his thumb and sighed shakily.

 

*****

 

John woke up a few hours later when the first rays of the sun broke through the window. The pain in his shoulder immediately made its presence known, in addition to a spiking jab behind his forehead. He gingerly tried to move, but was barely able to as a pair of arms still held him in an embrace. He carefully shifted them aside and climbed out of bed. His stiff limbs promptly reported back their complaint. He struggled to hold back a groan, stretching himself as far as his muscles allowed.

He gazed at Greg's slumbering face, glad that he hadn't woken him. Sherlock or Mrs Hudson must have let him in last night. Still exhausted, John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and went into the bathroom, where he cleaned his teeth and shaved. The face of the man staring back at him from the mirror looked like a stranger. Lost somehow. _Get it together!_ a voice admonished him from the back of his head.

He carelessly tossed the few articles of clothing he was wearing onto the floor and got into the shower, where he turned on the cold water and inhaled sharply. When he couldn't stand it anymore, he turned on the warm water, adjusting it until the temperature was pleasant, and started soaping up. He went back into the bedroom with a towel around his hips, rummaging in his dresser for pants and a white vest. He slipped into his jeans and put on a beige button-down, then left the bedroom to go down to the kitchen on the first floor.

He put water on to boil and prepared two cups of tea, taking one upstairs and placing it on the nightstand. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he observed Greg's face for a moment before reaching a hand out to him and gently running it through his grey hair. The Detective Inspector had obviously worked late, and yet had come over afterwards so John wouldn't be alone. He'd only taken off his shoes and jacket before getting into bed.

Awakened by the touch, Greg opened his eyes and blinked. He rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and index finger, squinting from the light that fell through the window, blinding him.

"I have to go to work... you can stay in bed," John said and leaned over to kiss Greg on his temple. Just as he was about to stand up, Greg reached for his wrist and stopped him.

"How are you...?" he mumbled.

John forced a smile onto his face. "It's fine," he said, depositing a second kiss onto Greg's lips. Then he left the room, went back to the kitchen, and drank his tea.

 

*****

 

Work at St Bartholomew's Hospital went as usual that day. Too many patients with colds, a couple of injuries. Of course, no one asked about Bridget, and of course no one expressed their condolences on her loss. No one was aware that he and Bridget had known each other; in fact, most likely no one there even knew that she had existed. It was depressing how a life could be extinguished in such a short time without anyone taking notice of it.

John wondered whether Bridget's family had already been informed. He probably wouldn't be able to find out anything; as a casual acquaintance, he had no right to such information. _Casual acquaintance... nonsense... we were friends!_ John ground his teeth harshly. He realised he was downplaying their relationship to make the pain more bearable. But he knew just as well that he was only trying to fool himself.

He received a call from Greg at lunchtime, asking how he was doing and whether he was dealing with things. John repeated that everything was fine and that he was handling it. What choice did he have? It was no surprise that the loss of a friend would hurt much more than anyone else's death. He wistfully recalled his time in Afghanistan, and the only strategy that had kept him sane that whole time.

At some point, he'd stopped counting how many buddies he lost every day. At some point, he'd stopped discussing more than was necessary with the people around him. Making friends or finding out details about the lives of those men and women. Even so, every single death on the operating table had felt like a personal defeat. Yet he'd done better with accepting the realities of war when he hadn't had to grieve the loss of a friend every time.

Every emotion had had to be nipped in the bud. However, John wasn't very good at ignoring his emotions. The tremor in his hand and his psychosomatic limp had borne sufficient witness to that. At least it had enabled him to survive. John stared absently into the distance, chewing on the inside of his cheek. People died. That was part of life. He huffed and turned his attention once again to the patient files on his desk.

 

*****

 

John went to Scotland Yard on Thursday after work. He'd packed his sports bag and wanted to suggest that he and Greg go to _Smax_ together for a little distraction. Their only communication all week had been by phone or text, as Greg was pulling out all the stops to solve the case and not risk any more victims turning up. As far as John was aware, Sherlock was helping. He'd activated his homeless network and set out searching for the tattoo artist who'd designed the chameleons.

They'd actually found him fairly quickly and asked about his clientele, but he couldn't give them much information as he barely spoke English. The old, white-haired man with the sunken cheeks and leathery skin had only arrived in Great Britain a few months ago. He originally came from a village in Bali and only spoke Indonesian, so Greg needed to find a translator first.

John entered Scotland Yard's headquarters and went to Greg's division. The open-plan office space was buzzing with activity, and he saw Donovan nod a greeting to him from where she was speaking on the phone. He returned the gesture and walked past the various desks to get to Greg's separate office. Although the door was open, he knocked before entering.

Greg stood at the window with his back to John, also on the phone. At the sound of the knock, he turned and waved John in, giving him a cheerful smile.

"Yes... yes, fine. Understood. Then I'll see you tomorrow at the place we agreed on. Until then." He ended the call and put his mobile phone down on the desk. He ran both hands through his hair and sighed tiredly. "This case is driving me nuts! Every lead ends in a dead end. We've got a translator but the old guy's lips are sealed now that he knows what it's about. He's being held on remand."

"Can't Sherlock help?"

"I hope so. He said he'd drop by later..." Greg replied, coming closer to John and holding out his hand to shake. He apparently wanted to avoid any public displays of affection which might cause trouble for both of them. He held John's hand a little longer than usual, rubbing his thumb across John's palm and looking into his eyes before letting go.

John cleared his throat and broke the eye contact. "Do you want to come with me to Smax? The distraction might do you a world of good..."

"No, sorry... I've still got a lot to do here. Right now I'm commuting between my bed and my desk and practically living off of coffee... I want to get this bastard behind bars as soon as possible before someone else gets hurt. But go on yourself... although... how's your shoulder? Are you recovered enough?" Greg asked, giving John an assessing look.

"More or less. I stopped by the orthopaedist over lunch. He said gentle workouts are okay, but I should avoid anything more."

"Hm..." was all Greg said, his mind already on other things.

John waited a moment to see if he'd say anything else, but it was obvious he was so preoccupied with the case that he seemed to have forgot John was there. John couldn't blame him. In fact, he was grateful, since it meant finding Bridget's killer and bringing him to justice.

"Okay," he said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "Let me know if I can help in any way."

Greg met his eye with some irritation, then pinched the bridge of his nose and grunted affirmatively. "Sorry... yeah, of course. I'll let you know if anything turns up. Maybe we can make some progress with Sherlock's help..." He went around his desk, dropped into his chair, and propped his elbows on the desk as his eyes wandered over to his computer monitor.

John paused in the doorway on his way out, glancing back at the Detective Inspector. He would have liked to say or do something to help him; he felt useless otherwise. He cleared his throat and turned away, squared his shoulders, and walked back down the corridor to the exit.

 

*****

 

John ran a few laps to warm up then massaged his shoulder. It didn't hurt precisely, but it was unpleasantly tight and sent out tingles that made their way all the way down to his fingertips. Some of the members who had been present on the day of the accident greeted him and asked how he was doing. It felt good to talk to them, to regain a small piece of normalcy.

Instead of looking for a sparring partner, John offered to act as referee and supervised three fights in a row. The task was more fun than he'd expected. He got to know some new people he hadn't had an opportunity to speak to previously, was able to observe and memorise their fighting styles, strengths, and weaknesses without entering into a direct one-on-one confrontation with them, and at the same time he learned a few new tricks.

After the final fight, he approached one of the combatants who – like John – had mostly employed wrestling grips to defend himself. His name was Tom and he was a salesperson for a manufacturing equipment wholesaler. He'd demonstrated a few interesting techniques that John wanted to find out more about. One of the techniques was a leg scissors move, which Tom could practise with him quite easily without John straining his shoulder too much. Rather than a serious match, they went through the motions on the edge of the ring and chatted casually about the gym and the fights.

John had just executed the leg scissors perfectly and leapt to his feet, grinning happily, when he noticed the front door opening out of the corner of his eye, and a tall figure in dark clothing entered the main hall. When he turned toward him, he realised it was Sherlock, looking around at everyone in the hall with an analytical eye. This was happening then.

John recalled having mentioned _Smax_ to Sherlock recently, since it hadn't seemed important to keep his hobby a secret from him any longer, and yet something inside him clenched up. It felt a little like jealousy. As if he were being forced to surrender and share this little secret that he'd kept from his flatmate for so long. He kicked himself mentally for being such an idiot and went over to Sherlock to say hello.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" John asked, trying out a smile. He was more or less successful at making it look genuine.

"Research, John. You said Bridget Tanner was a member of this gym. It's possible that I might find pertinent clues to help catch the perpetrator," Sherlock said without looking at John. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at the sight of the – socially diverse – members.

"I don't think so. We're a jolly mix here, it's true, but... I mean, maybe one or two have something to hide, could be, but murder..." John shook his head as if to ward off the notion. "No, I don't think so."

"A solicitor, a primary school teacher, two out of work, a bus driver, three salespeople, three police officers, and... various dubious figures with their fingers in numerous pies, as far as I can tell. This must be a place where dogs run with wolves," Sherlock said bitingly, listing the individual trades and professions.

John rolled his eyes. "This is neutral ground, Sherlock. Everyone leaves everyone else alone. The outside world doesn't count in here," John said, well knowing that he was talking to a brick wall.

"Don't they always say things like that in bad gangster films? There's no such thing as immunity, John. That's an illusion. I guarantee you that some of these people are taking advantage of so-called grey areas to engage in crooked dealings. I'm surprised Lestrade isn't undertaking anything against them. On the other hand..." He finally looked at John, a flash in his blue-grey eyes. "He's been rather distracted recently and even more useless than usual!"

John huffed angrily and met Sherlock's eye with a disapproving look. Sherlock glared at him, almost challenging.

"Interrogating the tattoo artist was a waste of time. The man has nothing to do with the crime ring. The case is obviously important to Lestrade. He doesn't seem to be aware of the fact that his incompetence is hindering me in my work. He's clearly trying to impress _someone_." Sherlock's eyes widened for a fraction of a second as if to emphasise his statement.

John looked away, his lips a hard line. "I'll speak to him..." John offered, cursing the tone of resignation in his voice.

Sherlock made a sneering sound and balled his hands into fists in his coat pockets, although John couldn't see it.

"What?" John asked instead with more vehemence than necessary.

"So the two of you are together? In a _relationship_? How quickly lifelong convictions can change, hm?" Sherlock's right eyebrow lifted mockingly, a fake smile playing on his lips.

Of course John knew that Sherlock was referring to his insistence on his heterosexuality, which was apparently less strict than John ever would have thought until recently. Nonetheless, he didn't intend to have this particular discussion with his flatmate right here and right now, as its only purpose seemed to be to draw John out.

The question was _why_? Why now, why here? Had something happened that John didn't know about? Was Sherlock angry at him or Greg for some reason? Of course John hadn't forgot the conversation he'd had with Sherlock, when Sherlock had said he'd given John a choice. Had Sherlock actually been flirting with him all these months? Had he been so blind?

"Do you love him?" Sherlock asked, his voice sunk so low that no one could listen in.

Muttering an expletive, John looked away again, cursing the blush that found its way onto his cheeks. He knew Sherlock would see right through him even if he didn't answer the question directly.

"I'll leave now. There's a lot to do," Sherlock said flatly and turned on his heel to march through the front door.

John watched him go, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat.

 

+++

tbc

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John sighed disconsolately. He pulled his sports bag out of the locker and slammed the door shut. A hollow crash rang out when he let himself collapse against it, exhausted. His gaze drifted off into the distance. Sherlock's words continued to echo in his head. _How quickly lifelong convictions can change, hm?_

John was aware by now that he'd been fooling himself for years. Even back at school, other boys had always turned his head, but he'd never dared chat any of them up. He would have rather died. The memory of Harry's fights with their parents rose remorselessly to the forefront of his mind. The bickering, the baseless reproaches, then the quiet, the deathly silence.

He still had a vivid memory of the look on Harry's face when he'd arrived alone at her wedding. No trace of their parents, no greeting, no word at all. She'd swallowed it. The traitorous glistening that had appeared in her eyes for a moment was the only sign of her pain. But Clara had been at her side, had put her arms around her and comforted her. And that was all that mattered in the end. Their love had made up for her family's rejection. At least for a while.

Harry had never disclosed what caused her marriage to fail. Maybe it was the alcohol. Although which was the cause and which the effect of the two was impossible for John to say. The fact that their parents' marriage had been bad for years and only continued to exist from force of habit didn't make things easier for him. Relationships never seemed to lead anywhere. No sooner did two people declare themselves than their world fell apart, leaving nothing more than broken pieces for them to scrape their hands and feet raw and bloody on.

He didn't want something like that.

 _So the two of you are together? In a relationship?_ Sherlock's voice echoed in his ears.

John swallowed hard past the raw thing in his throat that was stealing his air. To be honest, he didn't know what was going on between him and Greg. Did this thing, this state, need a name? Why did the whole world insist on sticking a label on everything and everyone? The weight was always too heavy to bear. Why couldn't people just... _be_ together?

He reached for the handles of his sports bag and looped them over his shoulder, then went through the hall and out onto the street. Once at the main thoroughfare, he hailed a taxi and got in.

"Where to?" the driver asked when John didn't immediately give a destination. He thought for a moment. Should he go home to Baker Street? Maybe try to talk to Sherlock? The tension between them lately was almost impossible to take. He never would have thought that the great detective was capable of such contradictory emotions. He understood by now that the social awkwardness Sherlock displayed must stem from some kind of protective mechanism.

The problem wasn't that Sherlock didn't understand other people's feelings, but that he was overwhelmed by his own. Telling himself that he didn't feel anything, or that emotions were always a disadvantage, was an elegant solution at first. But even the largest prison filled up at some point. And whenever something broke out, it did with such intensity that it scared the people around him. If they even understood it at all.

John had had the feeling from the beginning that he understood Sherlock fairly well in that regard, that he had an understanding of the child within him flailing its arms around, that he could decode it. He hadn't reckoned on feelings developing that Sherlock himself didn't know what to do with. Was he – John – to be held responsible?

John shook his head slightly and gave Greg's address.

No, he'd never wanted that responsibility. As much as he liked Sherlock, as important as he was to him, he would never be able to open himself up to that. Sherlock would burn him up, consume him with his selfishness, would try to break him open, to understand the things reflected in him. And even if he became aware of how impossible that was, John wouldn't be himself anymore. He'd be lost.

John took a deep breath when he became aware of the pressure in his chest, the fluttering of panic. For the umpteenth time, he secretly asked himself how long Sherlock had had these feelings for him, and why he'd never said anything. A few days ago, he'd said their friendship was worth more to him than anything else. That he didn't want John to leave Baker Street. John never would have considered such a thing, not even given the burden that Sherlock's emotions represented.

The taxi pulled up in front of the block of flats where Greg lived. John paid the driver, got out, and walked up the stairs. It wasn't until he was standing in front of the door that he realised he should have sent a message to let Greg know he was coming. But it had seemed so natural to drive straight here. A second home port, so to speak. He pushed the buzzer and took note of the joyful chortle in his stomach, the anticipation of seeing the other man.

A few seconds later, he heard footsteps. The door opened, and there was Greg with a surprised look on his face. A towel was draped around his shoulders, his grey hair still wet from the shower. He stood there barefoot in a black tank top and dark grey jogging trousers. A warm smile danced around his lips when he saw John.

"Hey, I didn't expect you. Come in!" he said and stepped aside so John could enter.

"Sorry I didn't give you a heads up," John apologised with a crooked grin.

Greg shook his head dismissively and closed the door behind him.

"How was the workout?" he asked as John set down his bag. He went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, and poured some into a glass for each of them.

"Really good, I learned a couple of new moves."

"That doesn't exactly sound like taking it easy..." Greg advised, but winked at him and handed him one of the glasses.

John accepted it gratefully and took a sip before speaking again. "Just leg work, don't worry..."

Greg smirked and scraped his lower lip with his teeth, making a sound of acknowledgment. John looked at him, bothered. Had he missed something? A hint of pink snuck onto his cheeks, which he had no explanation for. Greg closed the distance between them in a few steps, put a hand on John's shoulder, and kissed him gently on the temple.

"You'll need to show me sometime..." he growled, a touch of salaciousness in his voice.

"Yes..." John breathed out, and he would have liked to slap himself for that. He couldn't think of anything more sensible to say, nothing funny or witty. Instead, his heart rate increased exponentially, as if he'd just run a marathon. Greg's scent confused him. It had only been a couple of days since they'd seen each other, but he suddenly became aware of how much he'd missed him.

He closed his eyes and pressed his face against Greg's shoulder, inhaling the other man's scent which had permeated the tank top. His hands bunched up the material at Greg's waist. The heat radiating from the other man's body had both a calming and a titillating effect on him. _God... that feels so good_...

"I've missed you..." John said softly without looking up.

Fingers slid up his nape, scratching at his hairline. "Me too," Greg replied, snugging his cheek up against John's head.

John reluctantly pulled away from Greg so he could look up at him. "Can I take a shower? I didn't get a chance at the gym..." John pointedly did not mention the fact that he couldn't go into the showers at _Smax_ without thinking of the night they'd had sex there. He enjoyed remembering it, but he wanted to do his best to avoid anyone else getting wind of it, and he couldn't guarantee that his body wouldn't react to the memories of its own accord.

"Sure! Wait, let me give you a towel..." Greg said and went into the bedroom to fetch a towel from the wardrobe and hand it to John.

John thanked him and disappeared into the bathroom. He hastily folded up his clothes and laid them in a pile. He turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, and got into the shower cubicle to soap up. The warm water felt heavenly on his skin but didn't dispel the underlying anxiety that had taken hold of him.

 _What the hell is wrong with me? One look from him and I want nothing more than to... God..._ John swallowed hard at the thought of touching Greg, being touched by him, sinking his teeth into his nape and licking the salt off his skin. A pleasant tingling spread through his limbs and gathered in his groin. His cock twitched expectantly at the images forming in his mind.

"John?" It came from the other side of the door. John flinched automatically and his heart started racing.

"Yeah?"

Greg opened the door a crack so John could hear him better. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked. "How about a couple of sandwiches?"

"Erm... no need. I'm not hungry. But don't let that stop you," John replied, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Okay, take your time then."

John noted that Greg moved off without closing the door again. He calmly rinsed off the lather, turned the water off, and got out of the shower. He wrapped the towel Greg had given him around his shoulders, rubbed his back dry with it, then knotted it around his hips. The steamed-up mirror slowly revealed his reflection as the cool air entered the tiny room through the gap in the door. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and combed it roughly back.

He picked up his pile of clothes from the floor, went out of the bathroom, and tossed his things on top of his sports bag next to the couch. His hands on his hips, he watched as Greg peeled an orange and added the slices to the sandwiches already lying on a plate. He was humming some song or other, and stuck one of the pieces of fruit in his mouth.

"You're in a good mood," John remarked and had to smile.

Greg turned to him, a gleam in his eye when he saw John standing there virtually naked in the middle of the room. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, resting the heels of his hands on it as he let his eyes wander unabashedly over John's body. John tried not to let on that he suddenly felt extremely exposed.

"Yeah..." Greg said, biting his lip before his eyes returned to John's face. "I think we're onto a hot lead with the case..." He stepped away from the counter and came slowly but determinedly toward John. "But at the moment I have other things on my mind..."

John raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Other things, hm?" he teased.

Greg stopped about an arm's length away from him. John wet his lips, trying to get his traitorous breathing under control. Greg reached for the knot of the towel but rather than untying it, he used it to pull John closer and kissed him. John absorbed the momentum by placing his hands on Greg's biceps.

When he parted his lips, he could taste the orange on Greg's tongue. He sighed softly into his mouth, running his right hand up the back of Greg's neck, and deepened the kiss. Greg's arms found their way around his waist and pulled his still-damp body into a firm embrace.

"I wanted to do this back at the Yard..." Greg confided in a dark voice, kissing him again. Water droplets dripped from John's hair, wetting Greg's arms. Greg ran his hands hungrily across John's back, wiping away the damp lines. His fingers explored the ridges and valleys of John's backbone, following his spine downward and slipping underneath the towel, which was only held in place now by their bodies.

John moaned softly, relishing the feeling of the fingers digging into his skin. Greg's breath burned on his lips, only a hair's breadth away from him. Their eyes were locked together, seeking, asking, pleading. John caught Greg's lips, sucking them between his and gently tugging on them while his hands grabbed the material stretched across Greg's back. He pulled the tank top over Greg's head between two kisses and tossed it aside.

"Come here..." he growled, reaching for Greg's wrist to pull him along with him. He let the towel fall unheeded to the floor, revealing his erect cock. He didn't care. They barely managed the two steps to the bedroom before Greg threw his arms around John again, placing hasty kisses and tentative nips on the nape of his neck and pressing his own erection insistently against him. John's breath caught in his lungs, making him gasp. He reached behind him and ran his fingers through Greg's hair, tightening his fingers in it as if seeking an anchor.

Greg took two steps forward, forcing John to keep moving as well. He was only too happy to comply. He turned around, sat down on the mattress, and pulled down Greg's jogging trousers, letting them slide to the floor so that Greg could dispose of the article. John noted with pleasure that Greg wasn't wearing anything else. The tip of his tongue promptly ran across Greg's stomach, tasting the other man with great anticipation.

Greg bent down to kiss him, resting his knee beside John's legs and wordlessly prompting him to scoot further back onto the bed. He held himself up over John on his elbows and knees, kissing and licking his upper body, sucking so hard on his ribcage that it hurt. John gasped for air and moaned softly.

They slid across the sheets, pushing and tugging, cuddling and rubbing, getting tangled up in each other. Following the heat, tasting salt. A cool whisper on damp trails left on skin by searing tongues. Mindlessly dropping every other thought that sprang up, whispering senseless words. Rough tenderness alternating with tender roughness. Lost in a dream-like state. Lost in each other.

In the gloaming of the cool moonlight and the warm glow coming from the other room, their outlines blurred into one, then separated in the light. The weight of their bodies contrasted with the lightness of their searching lips, unwilling to separate. Not even to gather breath. Drawing on and from each other.

With cool wood at his back, Greg grasped John's hips and pulled him onto his lap, caressing his thighs which pressed into the sheets on either side of him. He took the tube of lubricant gel from the nightstand and distributed some on his hand. John moaned against his lips when Greg held his erection and squeezed it against his own, lazily running his hand up and down. John tensed his legs and moved in time with the stimulation, sighing. His lips red and sore from kissing, John rested his forehead against Greg's and put one hand firmly on the back of his neck.

"Let me... feel you... please..." he said, his eyes closed and his voice raw with lust. Adrenaline pumped through his veins with every word.

Greg leaned forward and kissed him hard, demanding, digging his fingers into John's hips so hard it hurt for a moment, as if to express his agreement. He put his hands down on the mattress and pushed himself up a bit so that he was sitting upright on the bed. He leaned over to the nightstand, together with John who was still sitting on his lap, and opened the drawer. He took out a condom and handed it to John.

Greg's chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths as he watched John take hold of the packet, tear it open with his teeth, and remove the contents. Despite his unsteady fingers and the hands continually brushing his skin, John managed to put the prophylactic onto Greg. Greg pulled him close, kissed him over and over, and inserted his fingers, moistened with lubricant, between John's legs, feeling his way across the most sensitive parts of his body.

John bit down on his lips when a finger slipped inside him, and exhaled the air he hadn't realised he was holding. Still chewing on his lips, he put his arms around Greg's neck, leaning his temple against Greg's head, and failed to hold back a groan.

"Relax..." Greg whispered in his ear, "you don't have to do this..."

His eyes dark with arousal, John pulled back a little, gingerly moving against the finger.

"But I... want to..." He nestled in close to Greg, licked his lips and kissed him insistently.

Greg waited a bit, letting John control the intensity of the motion, and felt his doubts slowly dissipate. He reached once more for the lubricant, spread some on his fingers, and pushed two of them in through the tight ring of muscle. It was easier this time. He slowly stroked John's erection to give him some additional stimulation. John got more and more into it, utterly consumed by the arousal spreading through him.

His cheeks and chest were flushed. A light film of perspiration covered his skin. Greg caught one or two individual, salty pearls with his tongue and sucked on him greedily.

"Hng... Greg... you said... ' _I want you … so much_...' in the shower... at _Smax_..." John babbled between heavy breaths, forehead to forehead with the other man.

"Yes..." Greg breathed, his voice thick.

"Do you still... want... me?"

"God... yes..."

John kissed him deeply, caressing Greg's tongue with his. He felt blindly for the lubricant, squeezed some onto his hand, and spread it over Greg's erection. Greg sighed softly at the unexpected touch and withdrew his fingers. John shifted his weight onto his knees, moved in as close to the other man as he could, and sank carefully down onto his erection. His lips pressed firmly together, his eyebrows drawn together, he felt Greg penetrate his body. A hand gripped the back of his neck hard. He held Greg's arm to steady himself, paused, took a breath, and lowered himself further.

With a combination of fascination and unbridled arousal, Greg watched the play of lust-induced emotions across the face of the man on his lap. John's shoulders trembled when he was able to relax his legs because they no longer needed to hold him up. His arms wrapped firmly around Greg, he could feel him deep inside. Full. Inseparably connected. He was shaking. Overwhelmed by the sensation.

"Incredible..." he murmured against Greg's lips. Greg put his arms around John as well, digging his fingers into his skin. Kissed him hungrily. He grabbed John's arse and lifted him a bit, then pulled him close again. His arms on Greg's shoulders, John helped them move, feeling the friction larger than life with his sensually stimulated nerve endings. His mouth fell open, undecided whether to gasp for air or give voice to his arousal. John sank back down onto Greg's lap and bit his lips when another shiver of pleasure ran through his body.

"My legs are killing me..." he said with a crooked, embarrassed smile.

"So much for leg work," Greg teased and kissed John before he could protest. "Lie down," he told him gently, waiting until John had rolled off him and lay on his back. He put his arms under John's knees and dropped several random kisses on his shin. With his right hand, he stabilised his erection and slowly pushed into John.

John moaned out loud. He tensed his abdominal muscles, lifted his head, and watched breathlessly as Greg slid into him. Greg leaned forward and kissed him again, utterly captivated by the tightness of John's body. Their fingers interlaced. Greg held onto them firmly, holding himself up on the heels of his hands right next to John's head. His motions started to become faster, more intent.

John threw his head back, moaning, when Greg stimulated the nerves inside him over and over, utterly losing control over himself. Pressing his free hand against Greg's ribcage, he could feel the racing heartbeat beneath his fingers, the shallow breaths. Greg shifted his weight onto his knees, straightened up, and encircled John's erection, rubbing his thumb over the wet head. John clung to the pillows, completely out of his mind. He could barely stand the stimulation anymore, whipping him higher and higher on the wave of his desperate lust.

His loins clenched almost painfully as passion raced through his limbs like fire and he climaxed, spilling over Greg's hand. His muscles contracted uncontrollably and a low moan escaped from between his lips. John felt as if he were going to burst. Sparks danced across his skin. Everything tingled, and his ears roared as if he were at the seaside.

John cautiously opened his eyes, only to meet Greg's dark, lidded gaze. He realised that Greg was still inside him, watching him attentively. John's breath caught; he was completely done in. Greg leaned down to him, brushing the sweat-damp strands of hair off his forehead. His hips shifted forward, again and again, slow and careful. He panted as he buried his teeth in John's neck then kissed him. For a moment, John felt as if he were floating completely free. Seeking an anchor, he wrapped his arms and legs around Greg, digging his fingers into his back. It was almost too much.

He felt Greg tense and push into him hard when he came. A shudder ran through him that carried over seamlessly to John. His right hand clenched on John's shoulder, and a dark moan sounded from his throat. He huffed, exhausted, and nestled into the crook of John's neck. He distributed kisses haphazardly on the salty skin under John's lips while John caressed him. Neither willing to let the other one go.

John's head was swept clean. His body buzzed somewhere between satiation and an ebbing pain that ran pleasantly through his limbs. He would have liked nothing more than to fall asleep on the spot, but at the same time he didn't want to miss a single moment.

Sighing softly, Greg lifted his head and looked at him. Checking him over, a touch of concern in his brown eyes. "Everything all right?" he asked gently.

John's tongue refused to formulate even a single meaningful syllable. When Greg pulled out, a hiss escaped him. His body protested rudely against any form of movement. Sighing, he turned onto his side and watched as Greg peeled off the condom and wrapped it in a tissue. He took another tissue and carefully wiped away the sticky traces from John's stomach, then wadded it up and tossed it next to the first one on the nightstand.

Greg got up, went out of the room, and turned off the light in the living room. He returned with a bottle of water, took a sip from it, and set it on the floor before re-joining John in bed. His head on John's chest and his arms surrounding him, Greg ran his fingertips incessantly over John's back until they fell asleep.

 

*****

 

John woke with a horribly dry throat. He squinted sleepily at the rays shining through the window and felt around next to him. But he came up empty. He turned over and blinked a few times, but the bed beside him remained unoccupied. He struggled up to a sitting position and ran his hands through his tousled hair. He saw the water bottle next to the bed, reached for it, and drank from it greedily.

There was a note next to Greg's alarm clock. Before he picked it up to read it, he noticed with some annoyance that it was already after nine. _That's... new..._ he thought, and wondered when the last time was that he _hadn't_ woken up at five o'clock, even sleeping through an alarm. At least he assumed Greg must have turned it off that morning before going to work.

John grunted reluctantly. He should really get up and get ready for work as quickly as possible. But he felt like he'd been hit by a lorry. Should he call in sick? He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked, trying blearily to decipher what the note said.

_I would have liked to stay in bed with you today. My second set of keys is in the kitchen. Take them with you and have a good day! – Greg_

A warm feeling spread through John.

"Oh boy..." he sighed, fell back against the pillows and crossed his arms over his face. Images from the previous night formed in his mind's eye. He felt hot and cold at the memories, and before he knew it, he was breathing faster.

"Oh boy..." he repeated and expelled the air from his lungs in a vain attempt to calm himself down. _I don't have time for this, damn it!_

Resigned, he peeled himself out of bed and hurried into the bathroom to clean his teeth and give himself a quick top and tail. When he looked in the mirror, he noticed the reddish-purple bruise on his ribcage and had to grin. He rolled his eyes at the second one proudly decorating his neck. That one wouldn't be as easy to hide.

He walked naked into the living room to get to his bag, took out fresh pants and his blue shirt, and dressed hurriedly. For a moment, he considered whether he should leave his bag here or take it with him, but decided for the latter course. With regret, he realised that the sandwiches which Greg had made the night before but not eaten after all, had now disappeared. He didn't have time to make himself any more. He took the keys from the kitchen counter, dropped them into his trouser pocket, shouldered his bag, and left the flat to ride to the hospital.

Once he'd arrived at St Bartholomew's, he apologised to the colleague who had covered for him and promised he'd make it up to her. John didn't let his good mood be dampened, even when she complained and pointed out that he could have at least let her know. He was glad that he only worked half a day in the clinic on Fridays, because it was going to be difficult to explain to all the sick patients why he had a stupid grin plastered on his face. Despite constantly losing his concentration, he was able to take care of all of his patients and even take on two more from his colleague when she went to lunch. In doing so, he hoped she wouldn't have any reason to bear him a grudge anymore.

Following work, John decided to take the Tube home. On the way, he bought a couple of small items, then got on the Circle Line at Barbican and rode it to Baker Street.

He unlocked the door to 221B and went inside. A strange feeling came over him as he went up the stairs. He wanted to get rid of his shopping bags first, so he opened the door that led directly into the kitchen. He stopped short, surprised. The usually overflowing kitchen table was swept clean. Broken Petri dishes, beakers, and all sorts of other things lay shattered and scattered haphazardly across the floor. Sherlock's laptop was the only thing that was left (apparently) intact on the counter next to the stove.

John set the shopping and his sports bag down in the hall and cautiously entered the kitchen; from there, he peered into the living room. Everything was quiet. It was two-thirty already, but his flatmate didn't seem to be home. What the hell had happened here? When Sherlock's phone rang, John looked up in surprise. The ringing came from the living room. He carefully stepped over the glass shards, making sure not to track them any further into the flat. He looked around for Sherlock's phone but couldn't see it anywhere.

Acting on a hunch, he got down on his knees and looked under the coffee table. And really did find the iPhone there. Just as he reached for it, the ringing stopped. The screen showed three missed calls before it went dark. The first two were from Lestrade and the third which had just come in was from Donovan. That was unusual. John put the phone on the coffee table and went back into the kitchen. He took the broom from the corner, swept the worst of the broken glass up so as not to constantly be walking through it, and went down the corridor to Sherlock's door.

He knocked. No answer. He knocked again.

"Sherlock!" he called loud enough that his flatmate would have to hear him if he were home. He knocked again. When no answer came this time either, he opened the door and peered into the room.

Sherlock lay on his bed. He was on his stomach, his face turned away from the door, his left arm behind his back while his right dangled from the edge of the bed. His pillow lay on the floor in front of the door. John noticed with a growing sense of unease that Sherlock was nude. Part of his comforter lay under him, wound around his right leg, while the rest spilled over the edge of the bed as well and spread across the floor.

"Sherlock?" John asked again, trying to make his voice sound neutral. He had no idea what had happened, whether it was appropriate to be angry or sympathetic. Sherlock's clothes lay strewn messily around the room, as if he'd taken them off in a hurry. John got the feeling that his flatmate hadn't spent the night alone. Unsettled, he looked for more clues that might tell him how he should act. Once more, his eye fell on the pillow at his feet. He picked it up and put it on the bed. In doing so, he noticed that Sherlock's head was resting on a grey piece of wool. His jumper.

"What the...?"

"Leave me be..." Sherlock mumbled tonelessly without moving.

 

+++

tbc

 


	14. Human Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interlude once again picks up the narrative from Sherlock's POV and explains why Sherlock and Victor argued a week ago, what happened on the day Bridget's body was discovered (after Greg left Baker Street), and the events following Sherlock's visit to Smax. NB Sherlock's inner drama queen is especially active in this chapter. *cough*
> 
> Additionally, Deep Purple makes a special cameo appearance (can buildings make cameo appearances?). You can also see it in Purple (original story): <http://archiveofourown.org/works/4585083> (German only). The two stories otherwise have nothing to do with each other!
> 
> Have fun with a lot of drama and a bit of porn.
> 
> +++
> 
> As always my deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

**Eight Days Ago (Thursday)**

 

_I'll be at the door in 20 secs. Vic_

Sherlock read the text message, stood up, and went over to the couch.

"Where are you going?" John asked, looking up from his screen for a moment. He'd been working on his latest blog entry all afternoon.

"Out," Sherlock replied, shrugging on his coat and dropping his phone into his pocket on the way to the door. "Don't wait up."

On his way out, he heard John mumble something but couldn't make out what. Nor did he want to know. It was hard being in the same room as him. For one thing, Sherlock was frustrated over the current developments in John's love life. And for another, he had a guilty conscience ever since that night with Victor, when they'd met up again after so many months.

Sherlock opened the downstairs door of 221B and went out. He responded to the impish grin on Victor's face with a raised eyebrow.

"Why so serious, big boy?" Victor asked with a flirting lilt to his voice.

Sherlock ignored the question and stepped out to the street, raising an arm to hail the next taxi that drove past. They got in and Victor gave the driver the address. He watched in amusement as Sherlock frowned, looking at him with mistrust.

"Where are you taking me today?" he asked, clearly less than enthusiastic about the fact that he couldn't match the address up with any known business. Over the past few days, they'd gone to a different nightclub or bar every night. Victor knew all too well that Sherlock didn't generally have any great interest in crowds of people under the influence of alcohol gathered in dark rooms. But he didn't seem to have anything against the distraction.

In contrast to the past, however, Victor's long-time friend wasn't letting him touch him. After their first hook-up, Sherlock had flatly turned down every advance on Victor's part. It had never been so hard for him to get close to Sherlock, to coax him out of his shell and put the detective's restless mind into a state of ease, at least for a few hours.

But Victor found it more amusing than aggravating. He loved challenges, and he wasn't going to miss out on the chance to do everything in his power to smash through Sherlock's madly whirling thoughts so he could pick them up piece by piece and put everything back together. A self-satisfied smirk played on his lips at the thought.

When the taxi pulled to a stop, they paid and got out. The nightclub Victor had selected for that evening lay in a small side street that wasn't open to vehicular traffic. In front of the nondescript entrance stood a broad-shouldered man with long, blond hair that he'd tied back in a ponytail. His arms crossed over his muscular chest together with his grim expression were likely intended to ward off unwanted guests. Since the name of the club tended to cause confusion, tourists and other curiosity seekers were constantly showing up expecting something else.

_Deep Purple_ was actually a classic gay nightclub and had nothing to do with the band of the same name. In order to avoid rows between rock music fans and club guests, the bouncer paid special attention to whom he allowed into the gloomy underground rooms.

When he saw Victor and Sherlock, he therefore gave them a sceptical and thorough once-over. Victor's chiselled grin didn't convince him, but when he placed an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, pulled him in close, and stuffed his tongue into his mouth, the bouncer grunted his approval and nodded toward the door. Sherlock didn't so much as react to the kiss. Victor winked at the bouncer and led his friend down the steps, which were illuminated with violet light.

"You need to relax!" Victor shouted at Sherlock over the music once they'd reached the bar and ordered drinks. Sherlock sipped morosely at his purple cocktail, letting his eyes wander across the other guests. When Victor invited him to dance, he turned his back and studied the various bottles of alcohol which were lit up by several spotlights in a display on the wall behind the bar.

Victor stood close behind him so that their bodies touched, and playfully captured Sherlock's earlobe between his lips. Unwanted goose pimples formed on Sherlock's back and he turned his head to one side in order to remove the sensitive body part from Victor's reach; however, he didn't move away from his friend altogether.

"Come on," Victor cajoled from right beside him, running the tip of his nose around the curve of Sherlock's ear. Sherlock turned grudgingly within the embrace and spoke directly into Victor's ear so that he could hear him over the loud music.

"Later. I'll watch you for now," he suggested and took a sip of his drink.

Victor admitted defeat, shrugged, and took a couple of steps backwards onto the dance floor without letting Sherlock out of his sight. He bumped into another man, apologised quickly, and let his eye wander over him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He knew Victor's tricks too well. Audacity and good looks were his only weapons, but he knew how to use them, and pretty soon he was dancing with the good-looking fellow he'd _accidentally_ run into.

The beat of the music thrummed in Sherlock's bones, in his gut. Lights – purple, white, blue – danced over the heads and bodies of the people on the dance floor, making them merge into a quivering mass that moved with the same rhythm. One breath, one heartbeat, like a single, powerful animal.

He noticed out of the corner of his eye that someone was watching him. Leaning his elbows on the bar top, he glanced over at the man. He was tapping his fingers against his half-empty glass in time with the music. Sherlock watched as he reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and drew out a plastic baggie with colourful pills. Just a little, just enough for Sherlock to see it. Then he stuffed it back in and straightened his back. His head tilted in the direction of the loos, and he bared his teeth in a predatory smile.

Sherlock looked around the dance floor for Victor. He appeared to be more than occupied with his dance partner, so Sherlock pushed away from the bar, emptied his drink in one go, and followed the stranger without being noticed.

The music was muted in the bathroom, although the beat stood out, shaking the walls. The man leaned his hip against one of the black sinks, his arms crossed. When he saw Sherlock, his expression changed, becoming friendlier and more open. He took the baggie out of his pocket and held it up. It contained at least twenty pills in various colours, each with a different logo printed on it.

Sherlock didn't much care for ecstasy, to tell the truth. But just then a little artificial euphoria seemed better than submitting to the excruciating thoughts that had been hounding him for days. He stepped closer to the man, his hands in the pockets of his coat, and thrust his chin toward the baggie.

"What do you want for one?" he asked, trying to sound indifferent.

The man shook his head, smiling. "The first one's _basically_ free. All I want's... a kiss," he replied, and fished a green pill out of the bag, holding it out to Sherlock between his thumb and index finger.

Something in him resisted, but Sherlock studiously ignored it and stepped in close to the man. His eyes intuitively took in all the details that revealed something about the stranger and his habits. He watched as the man placed the green pill on his own tongue and gave Sherlock a challenging look, open-mouthed.

On the pill was written _Fuck Me_. Sherlock had to smirk. A creative concept to attract new clients. He was disgruntled to note his own curiosity regarding how far this fellow would go. Would he want to pull Sherlock into one of the stalls right here and fuck him? Not that he was interested in anything like that... Adrenaline rushed through his veins, setting all his senses on alert.

An image of John flashed through his mind's eye. John, who was so unattainably far away. John, who had turned away from him. John in Lestrade's arms. The image slipped away, shattering into a thousand glittering sparks as he took a single decisive step toward the other man and kissed him hard. He grabbed the back of his neck roughly, drawing him in close, into the kiss. The tongue with the pill conquered his mouth, and he swallowed. Then the lips were back on his. Demanding, requiring, merciless.

He was spun around and pushed back against the vanities beneath the sinks. A hand slipped under his arse, pulling his thigh up and clawing into the skin under his trousers. The other hand tried to find its way underneath Sherlock's shirt, tearing impatiently at the buttons to expose the body underneath.

Sherlock was vaguely aware that they weren't alone. People kept coming in, standing in front of the urinals or disappearing into the stalls. Curious glances flitted over the snogging couple, baldly staring, even brushing their arms and shoulders as if waiting for an invitation.

Sherlock lost any sense of time. He leaned back to make some space between himself and the dealer, wedged in between him and the mirror over the sink. A gasp escaped his throat and his head buzzed like a swarm of wild bees. The images in his field of vision lengthened, separated and came back together. He closed his eyes to gather himself.

He was overly aware of the hands on his body. Surging underneath his clothes, touching him, stroking, scratching. Too many hands.

"And who have we here?" an unfamiliar voice asked. As if on time delay, he became aware of a second man joining his dealer, kissing him over his shoulder as his hands wandered across Sherlock's chest. "Have you brought me a plaything?"

Fists closed around Sherlock's collar, whirling him around. Cold tiles pressed into his back. His wrists were forced up against the wall and a tongue invaded his mouth uninvited. It tasted different. Cigarettes and vodka. His brain could no longer differentiate what he was feeling, what was happening around him.

Suddenly, the man who was kissing him collapsed against him like a wet sack. A moment later, he was being dragged away from Sherlock and thrown onto the floor. The places where he had been touching Sherlock turned cool. His skull hammered and pounded like a construction site.

"Sherlock!"

Bright light blinded him. He felt the cold of the tiles on his back as his legs were relieved of their weight. He sat on the floor and closed his eyes. Quiet. All he wanted was some quiet. Sleep.

He heard a slap. A couple of seconds later, a biting pain registered in his face. He blinked sleepily a few times and was able to make out familiar shapes. Victor crouched in front of him, holding his head in both hands and forcing Sherlock to look him in the eye. It was incredibly difficult to comply with the orders being shouted at him. But he managed to angle up his legs and stand with the help of the powerful arms inserted beneath his armpits.

The spectrum of colours around him changed. Darkness. Flashes of purple light. Pounding music. Then cool night air surrounded him, and he sighed in relief.

"Have you taken leave of all your senses, Sherlock?! You can't just let some stranger give you drugs! What the hell's wrong with you?! Who knows what kind of chemical cocktail that bastard put into you..."

He was heaved into a taxi. The monotonous sound of tyres on asphalt roared in his ears while his head lay heavily on Victor's shoulder. Fingers continuously stroked the back of his hand. Sherlock felt both concern and a sense of security coming from the other man.

Yet the only thing he could think of was John.

 

*****

 

Next morning, Sherlock recalled having driven to the hospital. He'd lost consciousness at some point but had woken up again a couple of hours later. They'd put him on a drip with medication and analysed the drug cocktail that had knocked him off his feet. Afterwards, Victor had been allowed to take him back to Baker Street and had shipped him off to bed.

He'd only pulled Sherlock's shoes and coat off him before getting into bed next to him and curling up around him. His head pressed against Sherlock's nape, he'd cursed for a long time, reproaching Sherlock over and over again.

"You're a bloody idiot. Can't leave you alone for five minutes..." Victor had complained, both furious and worried.

Sherlock woke with a headache from hell and a swollen tongue that felt like a dried-out sponge. He struggled out of Victor's clinging embrace and staggered into the bathroom to relieve himself. His reflection in the mirror looked terrible. It was marked by ashen cheeks and deep, dark rings under grey-blue eyes, shot through with red capillaries.

He washed his face several times with cold water in the hope that he'd feel better afterwards. Instead, it just made his eyes burn, and vertigo piled on top of the headache. Using the walls to hold himself up, he shuffled back into his bedroom and crawled into bed. Victor muttered something unintelligible and put his arm over Sherlock again.

Sherlock didn't wake up again until several hours later, the aroma of fresh coffee tickling his nose. A steaming cardboard cup with a plastic lid stood on the nightstand next to his bed, along with a bottle of water. There was also a blister pack of headache pills. No sooner had he lifted himself to sit up than it felt as if someone had swung back a hammer and hit his head like a gong.

Groaning in pain, he slid his fingers into his hair and gritted his teeth. _Damn it all... what the hell..._ He popped two pills out of the foil, swallowed them along with half the water, put the bottle back, and reached for the coffee to drink the entire contents in one go. His body felt completely dried out, as if he hadn't drunk anything for days.

"Are you finally awake?" Victor asked, entering the room. He closed the door and leaned against it. "You scared me. What was all that shite?"

"Still angry then?" Sherlock established churlishly. He kicked the covers aside and swung his legs out of bed. He tried to stand with some difficulty, swayed, and almost lost his balance. Victor watched him with an indifferent expression as he tried to walk but didn't make any move to help him get to the adjacent bathroom.

"Are you finally going to tell me what this crap is about? You know perfectly well not to take drugs from strangers. God damn it, I shouldn't even give you anything but at least I know where it comes from!"

"Yes, Mummy..." Sherlock commented and dragged his feet back to bed, rolling his head in annoyance at the lecture. Not a good idea. It felt as if someone had implanted a heavy iron ball in his head that crashed into the inside of his skull with every movement. He snarled and buried himself under his pillow, yanking the comforter over his shoulders.

"You have to suffer through it. You don't deserve any better. Be glad they didn't have to pump your stomach." Victor hesitated when there was no reaction from his friend to the dressing-down. Then he added peevishly, "If John finds out, he'll give you what for..."

A twitch jerked through the hung-over body. The pillow moved a bit, revealing a bloodshot eye beneath dark curls.

"You're not to tell him anything of this," Sherlock insisted in an abyssal voice.

Victor snorted disparagingly. "Who's going to stop me? You don't listen to me anyway. Should I wait until you kill yourself? _Again_? I don't particularly fancy having to keep an eye on you all the time! That cost me dearly enough last time, Sherlock. I don't want to go through that again!"

"May I remind you whose fault that all was?" Sherlock muttered, shoving the pillow aside. They glared at each other, eyes flashing angrily.

"Don't start with that! You know full well I couldn't help it!"

Sherlock's gaze flickered. He didn't want to remember that time. Didn't want all that pain which he'd fought for so long to return. He turned to the other side grumpily, suppressing a tortured moan. He drew his legs up and clung to his pillow, unwilling to give Victor so much as an ounce of attention.

"Fine then. Be that way. But you're going to deal with your shite alone this time!" Victor hissed and flung the door open. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the curled-up figure and frowning sadly. Then he stomped out and slammed the door shut behind him.

Sherlock forced himself painfully out of bed, his head thundering, slipped on his dressing gown, and shuffled into the living room. He glanced out the window but Victor was already out of sight. His body was still protesting against the harmful substances. Shaking, he crossed his arms as his back broke out in a cold sweat.

He heard John come into the kitchen behind him and set down some shopping bags. He unpacked everything, unhurried, then reached for the electric kettle, filled it, and turned it on.

"Everything okay?" John asked eventually.

Sherlock turned toward John and looked at him silently for a moment, then shrugged. "Fine," he answered and moved away from the window. He walked toward John and stopped an arm's length away.

_Nothing's okay... my past is catching up to me and I don't see a future. No future with you. The more I realise that, the less I want to let you go..._

"Thanks for doing the shopping," he said finally and went into the kitchen to check the contents of the Petri dishes that lay spaced across the kitchen table. For a moment, he felt John's eyes burning into his back.

 

 

**Five Days Ago (Sunday)**

 

It had been dark for a while already. An eerie stillness lay over the house. Sherlock stared into the empty space between himself and the coffee table, still feeling the echo of the faded warmth along his left side. The desire which he'd placed in shackles deep down inside him surged upward, tugging at the cold metal and growling at the top of its lungs in the darkness. None of that showed on the outside, though.

Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm his galloping heart. It had no right to such flights of fancy, distracting him from things which were important. The case needed to be solved. Everything else, all these _emotions_ , had no place in the here and now. And yet his body seemed to be working against him. Why was he unable to turn off these unnecessary feelings? They'd never nagged at him this much before, thwarting his sleep and occupying the space he needed to work.

_Human error..._

As if being steered by remote control, Sherlock rose from the couch and walked – hesitantly at first, then with determination – toward the door through which John had disappeared a while ago. The stairs to the upper floor seemed steeper than usual, their creaking louder. The sound echoed painfully against his eardrums. He felt the wood of the bannister under his fingers, the worn paint.

The door to John's room. Like a cenotaph, dark and black. He could almost feel the presence of the other man behind it. Alone with his thoughts, with his grief over his lost friend. Sherlock lifted his hand to knock, but paused mid-air. What should he do if there was no answer? Maybe John was asleep already. Or worse: what should he do if John was awake and asked him to come in?

He placed his hand on the door. Sighed. _John..._ The need to be close to him and share his grief was strange, new, and even off-putting. Sherlock hadn't felt this way since... _Redbeard_... Mycroft had ridiculed him for feeling that way. He would laugh at him if he knew that a similar scenario was repeating itself now with his best friend. That Sherlock put an animal on the same level as a human being.

But deep inside, Sherlock knew better. It wasn't about being human or animal. It was about the relationship to each other, the common heartbeat, the shared proximity. Mycroft would never understand that, seeing emotions as he did, as mankind's greatest weakness. Just as he'd always drummed into his little brother.

Making his decision, Sherlock turned away from the door and went back down to the living room. He needed to find something to do to distract him from John. He didn't even want to think about the case right now, since the last victim would inescapably bring him back to John. He reached for his violin and started to play, but the melody inevitably widened the hole inside him, drawing him deeper into the darkness. No, that was too much. He'd focus on the experiment he'd been neglecting over the last few days instead.

His eyebrows furrowed, he leaned over the kitchen table and studied all the Petri dishes with their dried-up liquids in various colours. Scowling, he took a sample and examined it under the microscope, determining the differences to the previous samples and noting the results on his laptop.

He had no idea how much time passed before the doorbell rang once. A check of the clock told him it was past one in the morning. _That can only mean one thing..._ he thought as he went down the stairs to the entryway and opened the door. And indeed, Detective Inspector Lestrade stood outside. Tired and downtrodden, he apologised for disturbing Sherlock at such a late hour.

"Will you let me in?" he asked quietly, and Sherlock could tell he wasn't sure at all what answer he would receive. He obviously hadn't failed to notice that he was in Sherlock's bad books lately. Maybe Lestrade did know more than he wanted to admit. But did he have so much as the slightest inkling of the magnitude of the situation? Sherlock doubted it.

He stared at Lestrade wordlessly for a moment, then stepped aside, gesturing toward the interior of the house. Lestrade thanked him and came in. Together, they went up the stairs. Sherlock tetchily took note of the fact that the Detective Inspector had followed him into the kitchen rather than going straight up to John. Without paying him any more mind, Sherlock stared at the screen of his laptop and skimmed the last few lines.

Lestrade stood there, somewhat uncertain. It was downright painful for Sherlock to watch him thinking. If he wanted to say something ( _please no!_ ) he should just come out with it. Or let it go. Yes, that was better. Best of all if he disappeared again. Left 221B, got into his car, and drove home, wherever that was. But Lestrade didn't move. His gaze wandered over the Petri dishes on the table, looking intrigued.

Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. "So, you and John," he said, folding his hands in front of his chest. He felt a chill despite the fact that tongues of flame lashed under his skin, threatening to singe him. Blue fire danced mercilessly around his heart. He could have sworn he smelled the stench of burnt flesh, if it hadn't meant having extreme doubts as to his sanity if that were the case.

Lestrade interrupted his inspection and lifted his chin to look at Sherlock. Assessing, Sherlock noted with amusement. What was he waiting for? More deductions? There were quite a few more things he'd observed from John and seen confirmed in Lestrade. Not that he intended thinking about those things any further, much less saying them out loud. Or did Lestrade want to provoke him?

"This... may come as a bit of a surprise..."

_Did they discuss what to say?_ Sherlock wondered, raising an eyebrow.

"… and I know that you and John have a special bond of friendship. I'm not after getting in between the two of you. But... I like him quite _a lot_ and I think it's important for him that you accept our... association," Lestrade concluded, scratching the kitchen table absently with his fingernails.

"You want my blessing?" Sherlock asked incredulously, barely concealing the sarcastic undertone.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, I reckon so."

The burning in Sherlock's lungs reminded him to breathe. He turned away, sucked in an audible breath as if he were preparing to speak, but paused instead and turned back to Lestrade. His gaze had turned dark.

"I can't," he blurted out.

Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise. His right hand brushed the table nervously, as if he were sweeping away crumbs. His voice sounded raw when he spoke to Sherlock again.

"Why not?"

"I can't let him go," Sherlock brought forth with effort. He glared hotly at Lestrade, as if everything had been said. But the Detective Inspector just shook his head in resignation.

"You can't keep him against his will. You know that, Sherlock. You know him. You know what a stubborn mule John can be. He'd turn against you sooner or later."

"No. _You_ don't know him," Sherlock insisted, his hands curled into fists.

"I wouldn't bet on that..." Lestrade retorted more truculently than he'd intended, chin raised. "Listen; Sherlock. I don't want this whole thing to have a negative influence on our work. You know perfectly well how much we need you at the Yard. But don't expect me to exchange John for your cooperation. I hope you'll accept me as part of his life sooner or later. That you'll accept his decision. It would mean a lot to him. And to me."

Lestrade watched him patiently. But Sherlock didn't look at him again. He stared at the floor apathetically, his lips pressed into a thin line. Lestrade eventually moved away, wishing him good night and leaving the kitchen to go up to John's room. Sherlock stayed where he was, his fingernails dug deep into the palms of his hands.

 

 

**Yesterday (Thursday)**

 

Sherlock exited _Smax_ , took a deep breath, and stared at the overcast sky. He ignored the low-threshold trembling in his hands as he took his phone out of his coat pocket. The blue screen light glowed coldly in his eyes. He typed in two lines with nimble fingers.

_It's so dark. No stars in the sky.  
My place, one hour – SH_

He hesitated. But then he tapped on _send_ and set off for Baker Street. It took less than half an hour to find a taxi and be driven back. Sherlock paid, got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and looked up at the dark windows. Lifeless. Lonely. He swallowed hard.

The stairs creaked beneath his feet. He took off his coat, tossed it over the back of the couch, and went to the window to look out. The darkness at his back was oppressive. The flat felt oddly empty, as if something were missing that had originally been part of the furnishings. A fixed point. Sherlock turned around in a circle, letting his eye fall on all the familiar objects. Looking for the missing puzzle piece.

He took a couple of steps over to the fireplace and ran his fingers over the flat surface of the skull that rested on the mantelpiece, watching over the room with empty sockets. Sherlock's gaze caught on the blue-green eyes in the mirror. He turned abruptly away, evading his own reflection. Sighed. Shivered.

He checked the clock on his phone impatiently. Twenty more minutes. Ten more. Five. An hour had passed. No response. No doorbell. No message. He went back to the window and peered out. The usual traffic, the usual pedestrians. No familiar faces. Fury simmered inside him. Bitter gall rose to his throat. Frustration.

_Where are you?! SH_

No response. He selected the number. If he wasn't going to get a text, he'd have to try it this way. He'd answer. Of course he would. But that approach was unsuccessful as well.

_Come on, you can't do this to me!_ Sherlock thought, staring at the screen as if it would change something about the fact that the device wasn't reacting. Enraged, he threw the phone onto the couch. It bounced lightly off the seat, flew onto the floor, and skittered underneath the coffee table. Growling, Sherlock checked the street again, giving it one last searching look. Nothing. He drummed his fingers nervously on the window frame.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, he turned away and went into the kitchen. His eyes ran frantically across the test series he'd set up on the table. He took his laptop, placed it on the kitchen counter, and took a deep breath. The balancing act his self-control was executing just then cost him every last nerve. He could virtually feel it losing the battle inside, tipping over and careening down the roller coaster of his emotions on an uncontrolled ride.

With a single, arcing motion, he swept every single object, Petri dish, test tube, tweezers, and pipette off the table. Clinking and rattling, they distributed themselves in front of the refrigerator, under the window, and leapt underneath the table. Dust particles swirled through the air and light reflected off the edges of the shattered glass.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Sherlock looked up, walked carelessly across the shards, and hurried down the stairs, flinging open the door.

"I was held up..."

Sherlock hastily reached for the other man's collar and tugged on it firmly. He slammed the door shut, pushed Victor up against it, and kissed him hard; desperate. His teeth dug into Victor's night-cool lips, his tongue licking possessively over Victor's. As if he wanted to steal his breath away, merciless, unyielding.

Victor's hands ran up Sherlock's back to his nape, roughly caressing the skin there. Then he reached into his hair, grabbed on, and ruthlessly yanked Sherlock's head back, putting an end to the aggressive kiss. He searched Sherlock's storm-clouded eyes and saw the bottomless depths, the infinite abyss. Raw emotion, laid bare like an armoured tank that had been cracked open.

"I'm not your plaything, do you hear me?" Victor's voice was low and threatening, his expression inscrutable.

Sherlock reluctantly made a sound, a combination of suppressed pain and agreement.

"Good." Victor leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's neck before letting him go. "Is he here?"

Sherlock shook his head without speaking. Victor nodded his understanding and jutted his chin toward the stairs to indicate that Sherlock should go up. Sherlock turned obediently and ascended the creaking steps to the first floor. Just as he was about to go into the kitchen, Victor seized his wrist. He silently took in the chaos and destruction, raising an eyebrow in query, but Sherlock evaded his eyes.

Victor signed in resignation. His expression darkened once more. Holding Sherlock's wrist in a painful grip, he pulled him onward up the stairs.

"What... no!" Sherlock said, taken aback, but Victor didn't react to the objection and steered Sherlock up to the second floor.

Sherlock stood in front of John's room as if rooted to the spot, not willing to move so much as a single centimetre forward. Victor pushed the door open and dragged him into the little room.

"You can't... Victor! You can't be serious!" Sherlock protested. "He'd know right away..."

"So? What's the problem? It's not like you care much about his feelings! Or anyone else's for that matter... do you? As long as the great Sherlock Holmes gets what he wants!" Snarling with rage, Victor turned away from Sherlock and crossed his arms. He was boiling up inside. He would have liked nothing better than to lay his friend across his lap and give him a good spanking for acting so childishly.

When Sherlock rested his forehead on Victor's shoulder, he sighed. "I'm sorry..." they both said at the same time. Sherlock put his arms around Victor's waist and pulled him close. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

Victor smirked, rubbing the bare lower half of Sherlock's arm, which was wrapped around him. "You always need to have the last word, don't you?"

"Apparently so, yes," Sherlock replied in a serious tone, nestling his head in close to its blond counterpart and inhaling his familiar scent.

Victor extracted himself from the embrace, turned around, and held Sherlock's face with both hands. "If I catch you putting your life on the line one more time... may God have mercy, do you hear? Because if you survive, I'll personally punch your ticket for the other side for you. Have you understood?"

Sherlock was only partially successful at remaining serious. He placed his hands on top of Victor's and nodded once, hiding the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. After all that, he led Victor out of the room, clicking the door shut behind him. There was no way he was going to invade John's privacy again. Not here, not this way. It would only make everything worse.

They went back downstairs together, stepping carefully over the broken glass in the kitchen, and entered Sherlock's room. No sooner had they closed the door behind themselves than their mouths met in a deep, intimate kiss. Sherlock enjoyed feeling Victor's lips on him, being aware of the desire rolling off him as soon as they touched.

He slowly pushed Victor's leather jacket off his shoulders and let it fall unnoticed to the floor. Underneath, he wore a simple white t-shirt that was stretched out around the neck. Sherlock took advantage of that fact to run his tongue along Victor's collarbone, sucking on it as his hands slid purposefully underneath the white cloth and stroked Victor's warm back.

Victor let Sherlock do as he pleased, all but unresponsive. Letting his arms hang down at his sides, he merely arched his body slightly toward Sherlock and buried his nose in his dark curls. He ran his fingers through the thick hair again, this time gently.

Sherlock lifted his head and sought his friend's lips. Dreamily, Victor regarded the long lashes framing his closed eyes and the quicksilver flowing around the pupils when Sherlock looked at him again. He rubbed Sherlock's cheek affectionately with his thumb, the tips of their noses only millimetres apart.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together in silent query for less than a heartbeat. His eyes flickered back and forth between Victor's, trying to discover the thoughts behind them. He felt his own pulse inevitably speed up and his breath start to catch. Victor's gaze rattled him thoroughly. Sighing, he leaned his forehead against Victor's.

"Is... is this... okay for you?" he asked hesitantly, placing his hands on top of the fingers on his cheeks.

The corners of Victor's mouth twitched. "Does it matter?" Sherlock swallowed hard. Slowly but without hesitation, Victor unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, pulled the hem out of his trousers, and undid his belt and trouser button. "Take off your shoes," he ordered.

Sherlock complied without looking at him, stripping his socks off his feet as well, and took the shirt off.

Victor watched him. "Go on," he said flatly, tilting his head to one side.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment but eventually pulled down the zip on his trousers and slid them down his legs together with his pants, kicked both aside, and stood naked in front of the other man.

"Good..." Victor murmured and leaned down to open the drawer of the nightstand. He was satisfied to find the tube of lubricant inside that they'd used last time. "Kneel on the bed, face to the wall."

Sherlock frowned, irritated. He was used to Victor frequently assuming an abrupt tone and giving him orders, but it was usually part of a scene. Sherlock knew Victor was the one with more experience. That was the reason he usually simply complied, let himself drift, glad he didn't need to concern himself with the sequence of events. But this time felt different. More threatening.

His heart fluttered when he put one knee on the mattress and scooted to the middle of the bed. Victor indicated with a nod that he should move closer to the wall at the head of the bed. The wall was approximately an arm's length away from him when Victor tossed the lube between his knees. Confused, Sherlock looked over his shoulder into the otherwise friendly face. Victor's eyes flashed. Sternness was etched on his lips.

"You know what to do," he growled and disappeared from Sherlock's field of vision. "Don't be shy..." Sherlock heard Victor pull his t-shirt over his head. Shortly thereafter followed the clink of his belt buckle and the sound of his zip. Sherlock nervously opened the tube with his thumb and squeezed some of the contents onto the extended fingers of his right hand.

"Take some more," Victor suggested, even though he couldn't see how much of the gel Sherlock had on his fingers.

Sherlock obeyed, distributing more of the colourless mass and rubbed it around a bit so it wouldn't drip onto the bed. Then he hesitated again. His breaths came in short gasps and his pulse was fluttering in his veins.

"Spread your legs a little more. Eyes forward!" Victor barked when Sherlock was about to turn around to try and make eye contact. "Now get going!"

With a combination of frustration and pure arousal, Sherlock bit down on his lips as he reached behind himself with his right hand and rubbed his anus with his slippery fingers. He flinched almost imperceptibly, the gel still being cool, not yet assimilated to his body temperature. The pads of his fingers brushed the sensitive spot a few times before his middle finger penetrated the ring of muscle.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, holding himself up with his free hand against the wall, and suppressed a loud moan. He panted, trying to catch his breath, as he slowly moved his finger. As if of their own accord, his thighs and buttocks tensed, rocking back and forth until his body had adjusted to the challenge.

"Another one..." Victor rumbled, his voice coloured by his arousal.

Sherlock did as he was told, forcing a second digit inside himself. It stung a bit, and he tried to breathe more calmly, to relax. Heat simmered in his limbs and sweat broke out on his back, coating it in a shimmering film. He let his head drop back and moaned sensuously. His erection rubbed against the pillow between his knees, the cool pillowcase in pleasant contrast to his fiery skin.

He withdrew his fingers almost all the way, only to shove them back deep inside. The knuckles of his other hand stood out white as he clung to the bedstead, trying to maintain his position. More as an afterthought, he registered the mattress sinking and Victor kneeling behind him.

Victor's left hand grabbed onto the crook of Sherlock's neck, while his right hand slipped in underneath Sherlock's, following his motions.

"Just like that..." he said softly right by Sherlock's ear. "How does it feel?"

"G-good..." Sherlock said on an exhale, his eyes screwed shut, lost in the sensations flooding his body. Somewhere on the edge of his awareness, he heard the click of the tube again. A few seconds later, Victor grabbed his wrist, gentle but firm, and moved it forward so that Sherlock's fingers slid out of his tight orifice, replacing them with his own.

Sherlock put his right hand on the bedstead too, thrusting his hips back in order to increase the friction inside him. A dark, lust-filled moan escaped his throat, quaked through his limbs, and echoed in his stomach. He felt a third finger probing into him, stretching him relentlessly.

Words stumbled over his lips that he couldn't even begin to understand. Instead, he arched his back, hollowing it, and presented his backside to Victor imploringly. With his right hand, which was still moist from the lubricant, he enclosed his own erection, greedily stroking down its length, over the sensitive head. But Victor reached around his waist, seized his wrist, and put an end to his masturbation.

"No!" he barked, causing Sherlock to make a sound between frustration and lust, torn between the exquisite stimulation and the hope of release. "Hands on the bed! Now!" Victor ordered, releasing his wrist.

Sherlock reached for the bedstead again with both hands, seeking an anchor. His head sank to his chest, hot breath singing his skin. His thoughts were thrown into an unholy chaos. Like fleas, they jumped back and forth, unable to be pinned down. The lust was the only thing continually beating through his entire body, recklessly overlaying everything else.

"P-please..." he begged in a voice that didn't seem to be his own. He both hated and loved Victor at the same time for the madness he triggered in Sherlock. Everything around him was reduced to their bodies, the rest of the world fading to insignificance.

Victor's free hand roughly grabbed Sherlock's hip as he let his fingers slide out of him, encircled his own erection and pressed it into the stretched muscle. He shoved himself relentlessly into the quivering body until their hips touched. Suppressing a groan, he bit down on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock whimpered. Pain and arousal did battle with each other. Reaching into Sherlock's tangled hair, Victor pressed his head hard into the wounded crook of Sherlock's neck. Moving tortuously slow, he pulled almost all the way out, only to push back in at the same slow pace.

Sherlock virtually melted with the sweet torture. He clenched his muscles as if to keep Victor inside, making the friction almost unbearably intense.

A series of obscene words found their way out of Victor's throat, as it took almost all of his willpower not to come on the spot from the clinch. He paused, ran his fingernails down Sherlock's sweaty chest to his hip bones, and sucked firmly on his nape. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating wildly under his fingers, as if it were trying to break out of his ribcage.

Victor took hold of Sherlock's chin and twisted his face to the side so he could kiss him over his shoulder. His tongue dipped in between Sherlock's lips, sucking and nibbling on them with pleasure, only moving his hips minimally.

Sherlock leaned into Victor, returning the kisses between hasty breaths. As he slowly relaxed, they fell into rhythm together, rocking back and forth, savouring all the facets of the sensual game; taking all the time in the world.

Victor's hands kept wandering pensively across Sherlock's chest, his stomach, his thighs, brushing his erection with just his fingertips as if by accident but not providing it with any real friction.

Sherlock crowded up against Victor with increasing insistence, trying to ratchet up the wave of arousal. Striving for relief. But the more he tried, the less Victor moved, the more he reduced himself to light kisses on salty skin.

The next time Sherlock tried to touch himself, Victor twisted his arm up on his back and pushed his head against the wall. "Not yet..." he whispered, intensifying his thrusts just enough to make Sherlock quiver beneath him. He let go, breathing hard, and slid back a little on the mattress.

"Come here," he demanded. Sherlock turned toward him and Victor grabbed him by the back of the knee, moving first one leg down to his right so that Sherlock landed on his backside, and then the second. He knelt between Sherlock's thighs, running his palms over his damp skin and pressing his legs far apart. Sherlock, who was holding himself up on his elbows, let himself drop down onto his back. He ran one hand up the back of Victor's neck to his nape, kneading the taut muscles at his hairline.

Victor leaned over him, stroking Sherlock's cheek and chin with his fingertips. Moist lips caught his fingers, sucking them into a hot mouth. Victor let him for a moment, licking his own lips, fascinated by the sight laid out before him.

"Look at me," he finally demanded, tilting Sherlock's chin up a bit. He slowly pushed into him again. Sherlock moaned softly, his head thrown back and his eyelids fluttering. "I want you to look at me when you come. Do you hear me?"

Victor held himself up with his elbows on either side of Sherlock's head, paying close attention as he moved his hips. He penetrated deep into Sherlock's body with calm, intense strokes. Again and again, he dropped kisses onto the face between his arms, brushing eyebrows, nose, cheeks. The tip of his tongue tapped the corner of Sherlock's mouth, ran across his lower lip, and tentatively met its counterpart.

Sherlock was utterly lost, trapped in the close heat between their bodies. It wasn't wild and uninhibited as usual, but captivating and intense. He almost felt as if he were drowning in all the feelings building up inside him. His nails left red stripes on Victor's arms and shoulders in a vain attempt to find an anchor point. Victor's breathing slowly started to accelerate. He sucked Sherlock's lower lip in between his teeth and plucked it gently.

"Now..." he murmured and lifted himself up on the heels of his hands to give Sherlock enough space between their bodies to grasp his erection.

Sherlock understood immediately and didn't need a second invitation. He adjusted his strokes to the movement of Victor's hips. The arousal inside him virtually overflowed, washing over him in waves of ecstasy. His body tensed automatically with the contractions, over and over. He pressed his lips tightly together, suppressing the low moan struggling to escape from his throat when he came.

He had difficulty opening his eyes, anchoring himself in Victor's gaze for a fraction of a second before he lost control and gave in to the intoxicating sensation.

" _Fuck_... Sherlock..." Victor thrust mercilessly into him. His arms shook with the effort until the moment he climaxed and endorphins seemed to paralyse his body for a short while. Panting, he held himself up over Sherlock, enjoying the wonderful tingling sensation. When his quivering arms protested, he rolled off to one side.

They lay there gasping for air beside each other for a long time. When his skin had slowly cooled, Sherlock felt for Victor with his fingers. He wanted to pull him close, touch him, enjoy their connection a little while longer. But Victor pulled away. All of a sudden, he sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and stood up. He picked his clothes up from the floor, tossed them on the bed, and put them on piece by piece, fully cognisant of his lover's confused looks.

"Victor... don't do this..."

A joyless laugh was the only response. He was already slipping on his shoes.

"… please?" Sherlock asked.

Victor bent down for his leather jacket, swung it over his shoulders in a single fluid motion, and shrugged it on. He took a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of the jacket pocket and tapped it, making a cigarette slide out of the opening. He took it the rest of the way out and put it between his lips. Using his lighter, he lit it and took a deep puff.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said and expelled the smoke from his lungs.

The door fell shut behind him and his footsteps echoed down the hall. Sherlock could no longer hear him when he reached the door to the flat. Sherlock slapped his hands over his face with a mixture of anger, despair, and numbing emptiness.

_Please... don't go._

_There are no stars in the sky..._

 

+++

tbc

 


	15. Chapter 15

John crossly swept together the broken glass in the kitchen then crouched down over the pile of shards and ferried them piece by piece into the dustpan before emptying everything into a sturdy plastic bag. He repeated the procedure until he was sure he'd got all the splinters. Then he went downstairs and borrowed Mrs Hudson's hoover from the lumber-room in order to banish every last risk of injury once and for all.

The whole time, he had his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows drawn together grimly, forming a deep crease on his forehead. His mind was churning. He struggled to sort his thoughts but they refused every attempt. He kept going back and forth between sympathy and simmering rage whenever he recalled the image of his flatmate lying apathetically on the bed. What had happened? And why? Most of all, though, he wondered why Sherlock had taken the grey jumper to use as a pillow. Had he taken it from John's room, or had John accidentally left it lying around somewhere? He couldn't remember for the life of him.

After he'd tidied the kitchen to his satisfaction, he filled the electric kettle and turned it on to make a pot of tea. While he waited, he dug out his phone from his trouser pocket, opened the messaging app, and tapped out a few lines to Greg.

_Sherlock left his phone at home. I'll tell him he should contact you as soon as he's back. Thanks for the keys. I'll come by later!_

He tapped on _send_ and cursed softly. He couldn't explain – not even to himself – why he felt the need to lie. Maybe because he didn't know how to explain Sherlock's condition. Greg knew about Victor. John hadn't ever mentioned to Greg that Victor had turned up again – and why not? – but he was aware of the fact that the two men had had something going on between them before.

When the characteristic click sounded from the electric kettle, he poured the boiling water into the teapot and waited for the tea to steep. Then he poured himself a cup and took it into the living room, where he sat down on the couch. His ill-humour had evaporated by now, making way for a vague kind of helplessness. Without knowing what had happened, John had no way of guessing whether Sherlock's apathy had something to do with Victor or with his visit to _Smax_ and their... discussion.

The latter option would quite possibly mean that Sherlock hadn't left his room since he got back last night. No, that wasn't really what it looked like. Maybe something else had happened after all? John's eye landed on Sherlock's phone where it lay on the table. He picked up the iPhone and pushed the home button to turn on the screen. He was puzzled to find that it wasn't password protected. He scrolled idly through the contact list, stopping at the name _Trevor_ , and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

If he called, Victor would think it was Sherlock. If they'd rowed, he might not even answer. Sighing, John propped his elbow on his knee and stared at the device in his hand. What should he say? Did he even have the right to stick his nose in this whole thing? He only wanted to find out whether Sherlock was … like this because of himself or Victor. It would be easier to be supportive to Sherlock following a disagreement with his lover than if he were the cause of the misery – even if the latter was still within the realm of possibility.

The chances were fifty-fifty... he assumed. He brushed the hair off his forehead pensively. _Am I fooling myself here?_ The thought that he might be the one to have sent Sherlock down that hole was intolerable to him. How should they go on from there? How should he look his flatmate in the eye day in and day out, and endure the heartache there? He didn't want Sherlock to suffer on his account. He was important to John. Very important...

John unconsciously ran his fingers over his bottom lip. He slid forward to the edge of the sofa, squared his shoulders, and cleared his throat before tapping on Victor's name. The phone rang. Four times. Five times. It didn't seem as though Victor wanted to accept a call from Sherlock. Was it a row after all? The flutter of relief went up in a puff of smoke when there was a crackle over the line and then Victor's voice came through.

"What do you want?"

_Definitely a row_. John cleared his throat.

"Hello. This... is John. Erm..." John lifted his free hand as if he wanted to pluck his words out of thin air, not sure which ones would lead to a positive result. It was silent on the other end of the line. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you... I... Well, you see..." He pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. "Oh boy. Listen, I don't know what happened, whether the two of you had a fight or what... at any rate, Sherlock's not doing very well. I thought you should know. As his friend. Or whatever."

Slapping his hand against his forehead, John cursed internally without letting a word escape his lips. How could he splutter out such shite? He stuck the knuckles of his left hand between his teeth and listened anxiously. Several long seconds passed before Victor spoke.

"So?"

_So?!_

"Erm…" John said helplessly. He thought he heard an amused snort on the other end. Did Victor think this was all some kind of joke?! "I think you should talk to him. Straighten things out?"

John heard Victor exhale slowly. He was obviously smoking. And wasn't making a very cooperative impression. John decided to take a different tack.

"It's none of my business of course, but if you tell me what happened, maybe I can… I don't know… mediate?" he suggested, chewing on his bottom lip.

Another eternity passed, during which neither spoke.

"You're wrong about that," Victor said eventually, his voice as cold as pack ice. John shivered unconsciously. "It's very much your business. But the more I think about it... you're actually doing the right thing. You'd never be a match for him. He'd take you apart piece by piece. And you'd let him."

"What... are you talking about?" John asked. He had the sneaking suspicion he was being threatened. Panic flowed into his blood, making his heart pound harder with every beat.

Victor chuckled joylessly. "You're a smart guy. Figure it out!" And with that, he ended the call.

John stared at the phone in his hand, returned it to the coffee table, and fixed his gaze on it as if it were an exotic insect. He ran his hands over his face, folded them under his chin, and tried to make some sense out of the conversation. Had Victor tried to insinuate that his liaison with Sherlock had failed because John stood between them? That John couldn't handle a romantic relationship with Sherlock? Who had even said he was considering such a thing?!

He paced back and forth in the living room, keyed up, as he considered how best to proceed with the situation. It was late afternoon already, and he wanted to see Greg, who was probably getting off work soon. He walked purposefully into the kitchen, poured some tea into a second mug, stirred in a spoonful of sugar and some milk, and went down the adjacent corridor to Sherlock's door.

He knocked and waited a moment, but as expected there was no response from his flatmate. John pushed down the door handle and peered into the room, which was flooded with late afternoon light. Sherlock was still lying on his bed, but had grabbed the pillow and rolled himself up in his cover. There was no sign of the grey jumper. John entered the room, set the tea down on the nightstand, and took up position next to the bed.

"Sherlock," he said kindly but firmly. The silent treatment was getting on his nerves. He wondered for a moment whether Sherlock had fallen asleep, but quickly rejected the notion. Even if it were the case, he'd spent more than enough time in bed.

"The sun's going down soon. You can't spend all day lying in bed. Have you even eaten anything?" John asked, and realised that he was honestly worried. "Listen... I'll make you some food before I go over to Greg's. I've taken care of the mess in the kitchen." John paused in his monologue. He could probably have shared his plans in a more diplomatic manner, but for one thing he knew that Sherlock would suspect where he was going anyway, and for another it made more sense to call things by their proper names. Sherlock would simply have to accept it.

"Please eat something... all right?" The wall of silence remained intact. John shook his head in resignation, went out, and closed the door behind him. Back in the kitchen, he prepared a quick meal and left it on the table in the hope that Sherlock would come out of his room as soon as he'd left the flat. He went upstairs to his room, packed a few small things, and left the house with a queer feeling in his stomach.

 

*****

 

John rang the doorbell at Greg's. He had the keys, but he didn't want to surprise the other man unnecessarily. He hadn't heard anything from him all day. Greg hadn't tried to reach Sherlock again while John had been at the Baker Street flat, nor had he reacted to John's text message. He was probably so wrapped up in the case that he plain and simply hadn't found the time. After all, he'd mentioned that his team was following up on a hot lead. The quicker they solved the case, the better.

John dug out the keys without putting down his bag, and unlocked the door. The flat was exactly as he'd left it. It was now dark outside, and John hoped Greg would leave the Yard soon and come home. He got himself a glass of water and sat down on the couch with it, took out his phone, and wrote a message.

_Am at your place and hope you can get off work soon!_

Somewhat disappointed, John turned on the television and zapped through the channels. He stopped on an old James Bond film with Sean Connery. He kept glancing at his phone screen intermittently, but the response he expected never came. He ruefully remembered the previous night, the heady lovemaking, the insistent hands and lips on his body. He rubbed his eyes and lay down as the closing credits flickered across the television screen, accompanied by the typical James Bond melody. Exhausted, John fell asleep right there at some point, certain that Greg would wake him up as soon as he got home.

The ringing of a telephone jerked him out of his dreamless sleep. He looked around at first, irritated, only to remember where he was, and discovered that the ringing was coming from the land line. Cursing his stiff neck, he struggled upright and reached for the receiver of the telephone on the coffee table.

"Hello?" he mumbled, still half asleep and rubbing his sticky eyes. It took a moment before the person on the other end of the line decided to speak.

"Erm... I think I must have the wrong number. Is this not Gregory Lestrade's extension?" John recognised the voice somewhere in the back of his mind.

"Donovan?" he asked, immediately forming a picture of Greg's colleague in his mind's eye as she stared at the receiver open-mouthed. At least he assumed she would be surprised to call at the crack of dawn and get a different man than she expected on the other end – although a glance at the clock told him it was already almost nine in the morning, and that he'd failed to wake up at five for the second time. Of course, there might be a hundred different reasons why John had spent the night here.

"Doctor Watson? Is..." She cleared her throat. _Oh, Sally, get a grip..._ John thought, rolling his eyes. "Is Greg around? I've been trying to reach him on his mobile for a while now, but he's not picking up."

John instinctively reached for his own mobile phone on the table, but no new messages had come in. No calls. Nothing. He made a puzzled sound.

"No... to tell you the truth, I'm starting to worry myself." Following a vague hope, he stood up and went into the bedroom. But it was still as empty as before. "He didn't come home last night. Didn't respond to my text or call. Wasn't he at the office?" John asked. A queasy feeling formed in his stomach.

"All I know is that he met an informant yesterday afternoon. I assumed he was with Sherlock and tried to ring him. But you know how he is... not in any great rush to talk to me!" she complained. _Who could blame him?_ John thought and scratched his temple. Sally Donovan didn't have a very high opinion of Sherlock, and made a concerted effort to let him know at every opportunity. The antipathy was mutual, to be sure, but John still found it childish and unnecessary.

However, the fact that Donovan hadn't been able to reach her boss for almost twenty-four hours, hadn't received any messages from him, and was obviously as worried as he was, made his stomach clench painfully. Something was wrong. Greg wasn't the kind of person who simply disappeared without letting someone know.

"Do you know where the meeting with the informant was supposed to take place? Do you have any of the contact details?" John asked, trying not to let the worry come through too strongly in his voice.

"I'm looking through his papers now..." Sally said, her voice drifting away as she concentrated on her task.

John chewed unconsciously on his bottom lip. He watched helplessly as scenes played out in his head, all showing Greg's life in danger. He didn't want to think about anything like that. He firmly pushed the images out of his mind, focussing on a spot on the coffee table. _Concentrate._ Panicking wasn't going to help anyone.

"Yeah... yeah, here's something. I'll check it out and get back to you." Before John could respond, she hung up.

Frustrated, John blew out the air he'd sucked in to form his words. Of course Donovan couldn't give him any information about police business. Especially not when it concerned an informant who was under their protection. He was aware of that. But he didn't think he could stand just sitting there and waiting.

He picked up his phone again and checked whether any messages had come in. In vain. Scowling, he ran his hand over his face, indecisive and restless. He typed out a message to Greg. Then another one. Waited. But nothing happened. Finally, John couldn't stand it any longer. He leapt to his feet and left the flat to drive back to Baker Street. If anyone could get information out of Donovan, it would be Sherlock.

He jiggled his foot nervously as he sat in the taxi, the streetscape rushing by outside. A mix of colours and shapes that didn't seem to make any sense. As quick as the wind, he ran up the seventeen steps to the first floor of 221B and burst into the living room.

Sherlock sat in his Le Corbusier, reading. He raised his eyebrows questioningly when he saw his flatmate's frantic expression.

"Sherlock... I need your help!"

"What's happened?" Sherlock asked, as cool as a cucumber.

"Greg... he's disappeared," John explained, his eyes silently pleading.

Sherlock maintained the eye contact for a moment longer, then sighed and continued reading his book. Clearly irritated, John drew his eyebrows together crossly and took two steps toward the seated man. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock obviously didn't understand how serious the situation was. Had he forgot which case Greg was working? If anything had happened to him... if he'd fallen into the clutches of the killer... Nausea spread through him, making him swallow down the words that burned on his tongue.

"He could be in danger... Sherlock... please!"

The consulting detective looked up at his flatmate calmly and demonstratively clapped the book closed, setting it placidly aside.

"I'm certain Scotland Yard will set everything in motion to prevent that," he said, folding his hands under his chin. The cold grey of his eyes glowed in the shade of his own shadow.

John bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. How could someone be so ignorant and narrow-minded? He simmered with a fury that ate its way through his limbs and pounded behind his forehead.

"What is this, Sherlock? Jealousy? Hm?" John demanded, his shoulders tensed and his hands clenched into fists. "Are you honestly allowing jealousy to decide the fate of another human being? He's your friend, damn it all! And you're letting him hang!"

"I don't have friends," Sherlock replied as he looked away, a downright eerie calm in his deep voice.

The statement hit John like a kick to the gut. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it. He remembered all too well the inn in Grimpen, the case with the gas and the supposed monster. How they'd sat in front of the fire and Sherlock had said those words. He swallowed hard at the memory of how hard it had hit him. Even more so because Sherlock now seemed to be taking back the apology he'd issued to John the following day.

_I don't have friends. I’ve just got one..._

It was strange how proud, how happy John had been at that moment. To be the only friend of this extraordinary, marvellous man. His only confidant. There had been many people John had casually called his friends in his life, but hearing the word from Sherlock's mouth was something special. It had a different weight, a different depth. The expression seemed to be so much more meaningful.

John started. The memory of Grimpen and the inn caused an image to flash in his mind's eye. A key. A key with a number engraved on it. He vaguely recalled that they'd stayed in room number two at the little establishment. His stomach clenched painfully. He turned on his heel and stomped through the kitchen toward Sherlock's room.

When the other man realised where John was going, he leapt to his feet and followed him.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?" he asked, the flutter of panic in his voice overlaid by indignation.

John had already flung open the door to his room and was reaching for the drawer of the nightstand when Sherlock joined him.

"John...!" he started, a warning in his tone, but he was too late to stop his flatmate.

John tore open the drawer and let his eyes fly over the objects inside. Just like the first time, it contained a couple of Greg's badges, some wadded-up notes, a dirty serviette, John's pen, a package of nicotine patches, and a lighter. And the key with the number two. The tube of lubricant and the condoms were new, but John did his level best to ignore them.

He reached for the key and examined it for a moment, laying it on the nightstand before reaching for one of the notes. Then another one. And the last two. They were all written by him and didn't contain any specific, meaningful information that would have been valuable to retain. Everything slowly began to form a picture. An absurd, disconcerting picture. He took the serviette out of the drawer and held it in his hand for a moment, perplexed. He couldn't make heads or tails out of it. In his head, he ran through the usual places where he'd been to eat with Sherlock. Then a light came on.

"Angelo's?" he asked dully, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock's face was pale, his lips pressed together in a thin line. John could virtually see the gears turning in his head. He let the serviette fall back into the drawer and looked around the room. With decisive steps, he walked around the bed and lifted the pillow, but didn't find anything underneath it. Leaning on one knee, he bent down to look under the bed and discovered his grey, cable-knit jumper which Sherlock had used as a pillow the day before. He held it out to Sherlock and let it drop onto the bed when his flatmate didn't react.

John didn't have to ask what this all meant. It was obvious, and yet he couldn't make sense of it. Why Sherlock felt this way about him, how long it had been going on, why he'd never said anything, what he wanted... and why the hell his heart was racing as if he'd run a marathon...

"John, I..." Sherlock couldn't get any more out than that. He was still staring at the contents of the drawer, at his little treasure trove that he'd collected in a flight of fanciful sentiment. It felt so surreal to be confronted with it. Sentiment. Human error. He was defective. Perhaps more than anyone else he knew.

Suddenly drained, John sank down onto the bed, his elbows on his knees, with his back to Sherlock. He sighed heavily. Conflicting emotions warred inside him. On the one hand, he was terribly angry that Sherlock had these feelings for him. That he couldn't defend himself against them. That this important anchor in his life seemed to be slipping away from him. He felt downright betrayed, even if he realised that Sherlock bore no blame. Things like this just… _happened_.

On the other hand, there was an odd sense of happiness mixed in beneath all the confusion and anger. He was happy Sherlock was capable of such emotions. That he wasn't just the cold, calculating machine he normally presented himself as. That he wasn't the aethereal creature John sometimes considered him to be. Not immune to being human. Maybe even more human than anyone else he knew.

"I don't know how to deal with this, Sherlock..." John eventually said softly.

The mattress sank on the other side when Sherlock sat down. Back to back. An entire world between them.

"I know..."

Of course he knew. Sherlock always knew everything. Well, most of the time. John smiled sadly.

"I can't say I'm sorry, John... that wouldn't be logical. It is what it is. This is all... new for me."

John nodded his understanding, then realised Sherlock couldn't see him and let a breathy "Yeah," slip out. "For me too," he added and stood up. With his jumper in his hand, he left Sherlock's room and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where he tossed the jumper carelessly in front of the dresser and threw himself onto his bed, lost in the muddle of his thoughts.

 

+++

tbc

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John didn't leave his room until the afternoon. He kept checking his phone, hoping that a message would come in. From Greg or at least from Sally with some information for him. But the device remained lifeless. Finally, the waiting got on John's nerves so much that he couldn't sit still any longer.

He went down the stairs to the first floor and into the kitchen to make himself some tea and half-heartedly eat some of the biscuits Mrs Hudson must have brought up at some point during the day. He couldn't stomach anything more than that.

Sherlock glanced over at him from where he sat in the living room with his laptop but didn't say anything. When John went over to the desk, Sherlock returned his gaze to his screen. John sat down across from him with a sigh and opened his own laptop. He wanted to do something useful. The waiting was driving him mad. He skimmed a few news sites, making an effort to concentrate on the words on the screen but secretly on the lookout for clues. He entered 'tattoo chameleon London' and 'chameleon murder' in a search engine, but didn't find anything new about the case.

He considered visiting a couple of tattoo studios and doing some investigating on his own. Should he poke around in a few of London's darker corners that he was familiar with from Sherlock's previously solved cases? He had no idea where he should even start. It didn't take long before he reached for his phone and entered the number for Scotland Yard, where he asked to speak to Sally Donovan and was put through.

"Yes?" she answered, annoyance in her tone.

"Any news?" John asked without beating around the bush.

"Doctor Watson... No, not yet. We're still on it." She ended the call without another word.

John crinkled his brow, frustrated. The police at the Yard obviously had no idea what had happened to Greg. But at least they would pull out all the stops to find one of their own as quickly as possible. Or so John assumed. He closed his laptop, stood up, and stuffed his phone into his pocket.

"I'm going to Greg's. Maybe... I don't know... I'll find a lead," he said, more to himself than to Sherlock.

On his way down the stairs, he ran into two elderly gentlemen in suits, who greeted him politely. Mrs Hudson must have let them in. Probably clients. John didn't pay them any further mind, and hurried out of the building.

 

******

 

_Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!_

Greg's flat hadn't changed since that morning. He hadn't found any leads that might be related to the case. No papers, no phone numbers. Absolutely nothing at all!

John couldn't stand to stay in the flat for long. The stillness was oppressive, and when he'd gone into the bedroom to search through the drawers and closets for clues, he'd been overcome by a feeling of suffocation. He had to admit he was scared. Bridget's empty eye sockets lurked in his mind, her disfigured body burned into his retinas. Greg... the same thing couldn't be allowed to happen to him.

Images of bloody bodies, amputated limbs, and faces contorted with pain crowded his mind. John swallowed hard over the trepidation that threatened to take control of him, that kept nudging him closer to the abyss. He felt a panic attack coming on as his left hand started to tremble. Huffing angrily, he kicked a post, welcoming the pain that howled through his leg, distracting him for a moment. The trembling lessened. Deep breaths. Jaw clenched. He needed to achieve a certain degree of calm in order to function.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets of London, keeping an ear out, keeping internal track of countless passers-by in the hope of stumbling across some lead. But it all led nowhere. He was still wandering the area long after dark, only stopping for a rest when his legs would no longer carry him. At some point he realised he hadn't eaten anything all day other than the handful of biscuits that afternoon. The thought of food made him nauseous. He decided to have a coffee and keep walking.

When exhaustion permeated his sore limbs ever more, John decided to return to Baker Street. Not because he'd admitted defeat but because his mobile phone battery was about to give up the ghost and he didn't want to risk anyone from the Yard not being able to contact him. Or Greg. He dragged himself up the stairs to his room and plugged in the device's charging cable, slipped out of his shoes, and flopped onto the bed. It only took a few minutes before he fell into a restless sleep.

 

*****

 

John dreamed he was sitting in a rowboat in the middle of a sandy desert. The sky was bright blue and seagulls were screaming overhead. The sun shone in his eyes, and he shielded them with his hand, his gaze focused off in the distance. When he went to run his fingers through the sand, it felt as if he were dipping them into water. Nonplussed at the misleading tactile input, he tried to stand but swayed so hard in the little boat that he had to sit down again in order not to fall out. His hands clenched around the bench, he stared out at the strange, roiling surface.

Not far from him, he noticed a shadow that looked like it was floating just under the surface. Something big. He started breathing faster, tasting salt in the back of his throat. The shadow suddenly stopped right next to the boat and got smaller, as if it were diving down into the depths. At the same time, it became darker, and suddenly blood spurted from the spot as if an artery had been sliced open.

John gasped, startling awake. His breath rattled and he was drenched in sweat. His stomach clenched with cramps. He barely made it to the adjacent bathroom to spit out the bile his body expelled. Still breathing hard, he rinsed out his mouth and washed his face. He glanced in the mirror and wished he hadn't.

He shuffled back into his room, took off his shirt, and slipped out of his trousers. It was still dark outside. He sighed, reaching for his phone, quickly checked the display, then laid it aside again. _4:42 a.m_. The queasy feeling in his stomach was slow to recede. He thought of Greg, and of Sherlock. Of hands caressing his skin, of mouths meeting in a kiss. Of ice-blue eyes that held his so intensely, it was as if they were speaking to him. Except he didn't understand them. Had never understood.

Frustrated, John rolled onto his other side, pulled the cover up under his chin, and squeezed his eyes shut so hard he started to see stars. It didn't help. His thoughts jumped all over the place, here and there, back and forth, mixing up all sorts of things without any rhyme or reason, without structure or chronology. At some point he gave up and just let it happen. The only thing he concentrated on was his breathing. Until he heard the roaring of the water. Until he sat in the rowboat again. In a sea of sand and blood.

 

*****

 

The next two days passed in a similarly uneventful manner as Saturday. When John wasn't at the clinic, struggling his way through his consultations, he sat in the living room watching the news, reading the London Times, being subjected to Mrs Hudson's stories which he only listened to with one ear, and constantly checking his phone.

Sherlock hardly spent any time on Baker Street. He usually disappeared around lunchtime and didn't return until late at night. When he was there, he sat in his armchair in the living room, drinking tea and staring at a spot on the wall, his hands folded under his chin. Sometimes he looked something up on the internet or wrote down some results from research he didn't tell John about. He'd replaced the broken test tubes and Erlenmeyer flasks and set up a new experiment in the kitchen. Now and then he muttered something or exclaimed in delight. John didn't ask.

At some point on Tuesday, Sherlock leapt to his feet, went into his room with his dressing gown fluttering around him, and came back out just a few minutes later. He'd got dressed and was on his way out of the flat, but paused in the doorway and looked over at John, who sat apathetically on the couch, staring at the flickering television screen.

Sherlock left 221B without saying a word.

When it got dark, he returned full of enthusiasm. His hair tousled and a wild gleam in his eye, he stood over John and clapped his hands.

"Get up, John, we're going out!" he cried with something like a smile on his face.

John looked up at him, his head resting on his hand, and responded to Sherlock's apparent good mood with disbelief.

"I don't think so," he said and changed the channel.

Sherlock wouldn't be put off. "We could get some food or... something like that. The exercise will do you good! Come on!" Sherlock urged him.

John regarded him with suspicion, his eyebrows drawn together, as he massaged his forehead with his thumb and index finger. "I _really_ don't think so, Sherlock," he said, more forcefully this time.

"John..." Sherlock leaned over, put his hand on the back of the couch, and looked at him with that effervescent excitement that always came over him when he'd done something marvellous. A sense of hope started to unfurl inside John. Seized by a sudden restlessness, he searched Sherlock's eyes for some positive feedback.

"I have a lead," Sherlock finally disclosed, a broad grin spreading across his face.

John's breath caught and his stomach felt as if it were doing a flip. Was he serious? Sherlock wouldn't lie to him, would he? Not in a situation like this. He wouldn't intentionally toss him a bone and then laugh and tell him it was all a joke. Right?

"I... okay... where... what..." John stuttered, still trying to process Sherlock's statement.

Sherlock straightened and nodded toward the door. John didn't need another invitation. Together, they went down the stairs, got into a taxi, and drove to Canary Wharf on the Isle of Dogs.

They strode along beside the massive glass-and-steel office blocks and came to a halt not far from the skyscraper at One Canada Square. Countless people were going in and out, visiting the shopping centre inside or just getting off work. Sherlock hadn't revealed anything about his ominous lead, and John was starting to doubt whether the detective had actually come up with anything.

"Over there," Sherlock said and directed his gaze toward the entrance to the building.

John looked around, trying to figure out what Sherlock was talking about, but couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary.

"If you want to keep something secret, it's often best to hide it at the centre of everyone's attention. The more people surround you, the less you stick out. Do you see those two men over there by the pillar?" Sherlock asked. He wanted to avoid pointing at the individuals in order not to draw any unwanted attention their way. But John understood him anyway.

One of the two men was tall and had short, blond hair. There was a cigarette wedged behind his ear. His posture was calm but focused, as if he were cognisant of the fact that the square in front of the building belonged to him. He wore a brown leather jacket with black jeans and a white shirt. John couldn't shake the elusive feeling that he'd seen him before, but couldn't say where.

Whom he did recognise, however, was the second man. His black t-shirt stretched over his muscular arms, which he had crossed over his chest. His face was distorted in a scowl and he stood in front of the first man with his legs placed far apart, as if he needed to maintain his position against him.

"I know the bloke on the right..." John whispered, even though no one was paying any attention to them amidst the noise around them.

"I know," Sherlock countered and gave John a triumphant smile. "Jeffrey Rankmore. If I've been informed correctly, the two of you had a small altercation..."

"Well... not exactly," John dissented. He recalled the fight with Jeff, the attack following the whistle, the pain in his limbs. The fact that Greg had acted as referee for the match, and that he'd anticipated the other man's unsportsmanlike behaviour. Everything that had happened in the showers afterwards... He firmly set aside those memories. Now was neither the time nor the place. "He didn't fight fair," John explained without taking his eyes off Jeff.

Just then, the two men they were watching exchanged a thick envelope. Jeff stashed it in his backpack, slung the bag over his shoulder, and left without giving the other man another look. John wanted to go after him, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist and held him back.

"That can wait. The other man is the one we need to keep an eye on," he explained, and John looked over at the man in the brown leather jacket again.

He took the cigarette from behind his ear, dug a lighter out of his trouser pocket, and used it to light the cigarette. He then took a phone out of his back pocket and tapped at it a bit before putting it back and blowing cigarette smoke into the air. He left the square in front of the One Canada building unhurriedly and went over to a car parked at the kerb, got in, and drove off.

"Drat!" Sherlock swore and ran off.

John followed right behind him. They rushed to the street, hailed the next taxi that drove past, and jumped in to take up the chase, but they'd lost sight of their target in the heavy traffic after just a few minutes.

"What do we do now?" John asked, spurred on by the adrenaline flooding his system.

Sherlock tapped around on his phone at lightning speed, not appearing to have heard him. He gave the driver the address of _Smax_ before continuing to abuse his phone screen with flying fingers.

"Sherlock! Talk to me, please!" John pleaded, not knowing which way was up anymore. He couldn't make heads or tails of the situation, didn't understand whether Jeff had anything to do with Greg's disappearance or not. Whose trail were they on, and what was behind it all? Was this all related to the chameleon killer, or did it concern something else altogether? And why couldn't he shake the feeling that he knew the man in the brown leather jacket?

"All right, fine," Sherlock began. "As I predicted, there are shady business dealings going on at that gym. It could be that the police officers who are members there are somehow involved, or they might have absolutely no idea."

"Are you saying Greg has something to do with all this?!" John asked incredulously, staring at his friend. A thin smile graced Sherlock's face.

"No. I think he belongs to the second category of officers. The others probably were less than enthusiastic when he joined in. Maybe he found something out and they decided to get rid of him," Sherlock said, listening as John drew in a horrified breath beside him. When he turned toward him, John was white as a sheet.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that..." he tried to counter his faux pas. He laid a hand on top of the trembling fist on John's knee. "I don't think that... I'm sure he's still alive," Sherlock restated his sentence.

Air which John couldn't breathe burned in his throat. Anger and despair roamed his guts like wild animals, unwilling to digest what he had just heard. Sherlock had deduced the situation. Sherlock was always right. _Almost always!_ a voice in the back of his head hissed. The fact that he'd revised his opinion was for John's sake, not due to his actual convictions. _No, no, no..._

Five days. Greg had been gone almost exactly five days now. As if the earth had swallowed him up. A lot could happen in five days. John would have to be extremely naïve not to accept that. And yet he didn't want to dwell on the ' _what ifs_ ', but on the fact that they would find Greg soon. Hopefully hale and hearty...

The taxi stopped near the fitness studio, and the two men got out. Sherlock quickly checked his phone, apparently involved in a lively exchange with his informants. He sighed and looked over at the warehouse where _Smax_ was located before turning to John.

"I'm going to meet up with some of the homeless network... they may have found the other man. I'd suggest you keep an eye on Rankmore..." Sherlock said and pushed his hands down into his coat pockets.

John nodded at him. He'd be less conspicuous at _Smax_ than Sherlock. The only problem was that he didn't have his sports things with him, which might cause suspicion amongst the other members. When he realised Sherlock was staring at him, he looked up questioningly.

"Take care of yourself and don't do anything ill-considered, all right?" Sherlock said gently.

John wet his lips, nodded once, then turned away and walked toward the warehouse.

 

*****

 

John stood indecisively near the main door and let his eyes roam over the members of _Smax_ who were there. It was relatively full, the rings and equipment all in use. A cacophony of metal hitting metal, the quick tramping of feet on various floorings, the hisses and pants of the fighters, and low, unintelligible conversations all crowded into his ears. The smell of sweat hung in the air. He couldn't see Jeff anywhere.

He headed straight for the changing room. And there was Jeff, standing in front of a locker, just getting changed. Two other people were there as well, so John couldn't stand in the aisle and watch him without making it obvious. He decided to go back out to the main hall and watch Jeff from there.

"Hey, John!"

John turned to his right and saw Phil, who was just getting off the rowing machine. He wiped his damp forehead. John greeted him, forcing a friendly smile onto his lips.

"How's your shoulder?" Phil asked, slinging his towel over his shoulders.

"Better," John answered truthfully, letting his gaze wander around the hall at the same time, keeping an eye out.

"Looking for someone?"

John shook his head dismissively.

"Your friend's not here," Phil said, crossing his arms over his chest, a cool smile on his lips.

John started. Of course. Phil had seen him and Greg when Greg had picked him up to drive him to hospital. An uneasy feeling formed in his stomach. He didn't like the fact that outsiders might have picked up something about his connection to Greg.

"Didn't expect him to be..." John responded, trying to remain as composed as possible.

Phil pursed his lips. "Doesn't look like you're here to exercise." A question mark hovered at the end of the sentence. He must have noticed that John hadn't changed his clothes or brought a bag with him.

Just then, the door to the locker room opened, and Jeff came out. He went over to two other men, one of whom John recognised as a policeman. Greg had spoken to him once or twice.

"Erm..." John said when he felt Phil's assessing gaze on him. He still hadn't reacted to the statement, and Phil was waiting for an explanation. "I've just come from work but don't have my sports things with me. I'd hoped someone could loan me a pair of shorts or that I might just find someone to shoot the breeze..." He shrugged helplessly.

"Got it. Well, I can't help you there. See you round," Phil said and turned away.

John couldn't help feeling that the affability which the other man had demonstrated last time had shifted to cool distance and even dislike. He didn't want to consider what the reason for that might be at the moment, though, and whether his suspicions were correct.

He went to the exit without paying any further attention to Phil. Outside, he walked around the building to check whether there was a rear door he was unaware of. But there was only an emergency exit that led into the back part of the main hall, which John already knew. It was locked and only opened if the alarm button were pushed. In other words, Jeff would have to go out through the main door when he left _Smax_.

_Jeff is at Smax. Couldn't tell whether he passed on the envelope. Suggestions? Should I wait until he leaves? – John_

John sent the message to Sherlock and decided to wait in the shadow of the building. He would draw too much attention to himself inside. Anyway, he was fairly certain that – if Jeff were really doing dirty dealings in the gym – nothing would happen right out in public.

Unlike One Canada Square, _Smax_ was a relatively private place. The members would necessarily have to be aware of any criminal schemes taking place, and John couldn't imagine for the life of him that _everyone_ was in on it together. At least he himself had never suspected previously that any unsavoury business deals were going on between the members. That was the reason he'd defended _Smax_ to Sherlock. On the other hand, John couldn't say what people might do in their free time...

A message alert sounded, breaking through the silence. For the blink of an eye, John felt hope blossom within him. But it was promptly nipped in the bud when he saw that it was just a response from Sherlock.

_Don't let him out of your sight. But don't get too close. – SH_

John waited almost two hours before Jeff showed up. Other people left the hall in the meantime, and new people went in. The usual flow on a Tuesday evening. John didn't know all of them by a long shot.

When Jeff strode across the empty car park, John quickly typed a message to Sherlock then set off on the heels of the other man, keeping a safe distance. It was possible that Jeff had already got rid of the envelope in the locker room, and it would be impossible to hang anything on him. But John didn't want to give up the chance of finding some clue as to Greg's whereabouts. He watched as Jeff took his phone out of his trouser pocket, paused for a moment, then continued walking. He'd most likely just checked something: a text message, his route, or something else. Sherlock would probably be able to deduce something based on his posture, but John couldn't. How often had he envied Sherlock for his incredible talent to read people based on trifles. To trade places with him just once, to walk in Sherlock Holmes's shoes for just one day... John shook his head to ward off the thought. No, to tell the truth he didn't want that.

It would certainly be more than interesting to gain some insight into the genius's mind, to think like him, to experience life's puzzle pieces coming together to create a whole. But if that also meant experiencing Sherlock's emotions in return, not being able to empathise with others or to differentiate between a laugh and a cry...

 _That's not what he's like at all!_ an indignant voice sounded from the back of John's head. No, Sherlock wasn't like that. Especially lately, he'd shown so many new sides – regarding his personality, his feelings, his humanity – that the thought made John reel. There were always new aspects to discover about his friend, and as painful as it could be at times – he wouldn't have missed any of it for the world.

He was still trailing Jeff through a narrow street. To the right and left were pubs and small shops, people were meeting to chat, laugh, and drink. John almost lost sight of his quarry when he turned into a side street. He hurried to catch up, pushing his way past tables and chairs, slipping through the crowd of pedestrians and night owls. He reached the intersection out of breath, pressed himself flat against the wall, and peeked around the corner.

But instead of seeing the street ahead of him, he stared right into Jeff's face. He was waiting for John with a predatory grin, one hand on his hip and the other raised to lean his lower arm against the wall at the height of his face. The blood froze in John's veins.

"A little bird told me you were following me..." Jeff explained, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. John almost scraped together enough courage to ask who'd blown the whistle on him when a hand came down heavily on his shoulder.

"Hello, John!"

 

+++

tbc

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

_Stars. So many stars._

It was more of an effort for John than he expected to lift his arm and wipe the blood from his eyes. He gritted his teeth and moaned from the pain that lanced through his head. Somehow, he managed to palpate his abused ribs with a halfway professional touch. Nothing appeared to be broken. Heat was gathering beneath his skin in several places: blood, haematomas, bruises. He was okay. He'd survived. Somehow.

With the cool brick wall at his back, he tried to insert his fingers into his trouser pocket but couldn't quite manage. Frustrated, he bit his lips and gasped as a jolt of heat went through his body. He tilted his head back and looked up at the night sky. _Stars_. His breath was rattling. He tasted blood.

"Can I help you?" a fearful voice asked. A woman in a mini-skirt and blue blazer was leaning over him, holding back her hair so it didn't fall into her face. Her expression was marked by concern and obvious fear at the sight of the blood-smeared man.

John tried to smile, to alleviate some of her panic. "Thanks," he managed to get out from between his clenched jaws. "Could you... call the police, please?"

He'd considered asking the woman to take his phone out of his trouser pocket, but doubted she would be willing. He didn't want to push her courage past the breaking point, and would have to settle for the bare minimum. He should report the incident in any case; he would be risking getting into a load of trouble otherwise...

She nodded and created a bit of distance between herself and John, reached into her handbag, and took out her phone to call the police emergency number. She explained the situation in a few brief sentences and gave the address before ending the call.

"They're sending someone," she said to John. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Thanks... it's fine," John replied and closed his eyes. Every bone in his body hurt. He heard the clicking of her heels as she moved away, paused, and returned. She stood there silently, arms crossed, trying not to keep looking over at him.

When the two police officers arrived, they questioned the young woman and let her go very quickly since she hadn't seen any of the attack. Hands inserted themselves under John's armpits and pulled him to his feet, leaning him against the wall. He felt dizzy, so he focused on maintaining his balance and staying on his feet. A light was shone into his eyes and questions were asked, but he realised he wasn't understanding them.

The voices were little more than a buzzing in his ears, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, but he couldn't pick out individual words or their meanings. He wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and go to sleep. Instead, he was somehow shuttled into a car. The smell of the leather seats irritated his nose. The seats were cool where he touched them. He leaned his head against the window until the door was opened again and a hand was placed on his shoulder so he wouldn't fall out of the car.

He struggled out of the vehicle and was brought into the clinic. The officer pushed him gently down onto a chair. The bright light in the corridor slowly drove off the sleepiness, allowing him to think a little more clearly. He was given a cup of lukewarm tea, which he accepted with jittery fingers. His tongue was heavy as he said thank you, took a sip, and groaned in pain.

"Doctor Watson? My name's Raj, please come with me," said a woman in a white coat. Strands of grey wove through her long, black hair. She held a clipboard in one hand.

Holding himself up against the wall, John slowly followed her into a private consultation room and, gritting his teeth, sat down on the examination table set up by the wall. The doctor shone a penlight into each of his eyes then asked him to lie down. She palpated various parts of his body, asked where it hurt, moved his joints. Finally, the laceration on his forehead was cleaned and stitched. After she'd put a dressing on, he was given an injection of painkillers.

"You were lucky, Doctor Watson. Other than the head laceration and minor concussion, you appear to be pretty much unharmed. A couple of bumps and bruises but nothing broken... did the Sergeant speak to you already?" she asked, making a note in his patient file.

"Not yet," he answered, still fighting the dizziness.

As if on command, a knock sounded at the door. A police officer came in without waiting for permission. John recognised her as one of the two who had picked him up in the side street.

"Doctor Watson? I'm here to take your statement," she said shortly, taking out a notebook and pen to take notes. "Can you describe what happened?"

John looked at her and drew his eyebrows together in a surly frown, which he immediately regretted as pain shot through his forehead.

"I was lured into an ambush by three men who go to my gym," he summarised. He deliberately avoided mentioning that he'd been following one of them. He couldn't tell at the moment who – if anyone – from Scotland Yard was connected to the murders, and he needed to prevent their investigation from being exposed.

"Can you explain why anyone would want to ambush you?"

John ground his teeth angrily, looking from the policewoman to the doctor and back at his hands in his lap. "Homophobia," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Can you provide more detail?" the policewoman pressed.

John sighed and winced, struggling with the shame welling up inside him. He hated all of this. He hated that everything he'd worried about his entire life had promptly been proven correct as soon as he'd succeeded in admitting to his true nature.

"One of the attackers saw me recently with … my _boyfriend_ , and must have drawn his own conclusions. He apparently has a problem with... that," he explained. He had difficulty holding back the anger that still itched in his limbs.

The officer took some notes then nodded once. At least she didn't react any more than that to his _coming out_. He was a tiny bit grateful to her for that.

"Can you give me the names of the three men?"

"Jeffrey Rankmore, Phil... or rather Phillip... I don't know his last name. I probably broke his nose. I don't know the third man's name," John admitted, running his thumb nervously over his palm.

"So you know how to defend yourself?" the policewoman asked, her voice remaining neutral as before.

"Yes... more or less. I don't know how bad the three of them got it. I... felt as if I were fighting for my life."

The policewoman nodded and put away her notebook. "You know there's a possibility you might be charged with assault?" she asked dryly.

"Yes."

"And I assume you're also going to press charges, Doctor Watson?"

"Naturally..." John answered, meeting her eye for the first time. The corner of her mouth twitched. Was she on his side? She handed him a business card with her name and direct extension, explaining that he could call her if he had any questions, and that otherwise someone would get back to him. Then she said good-bye and left.

"Do you have someone who can pick you up?" Doctor Raj asked, having just completed John's paperwork.

John nodded faintly. "I think so."

She wrote out a prescription for more painkillers and wished him all the best before rushing off to her next patient.

With some assistance from a nurse, John shuffled back to the waiting area, took his phone out of his trouser pocket, and rang for a taxi. Slowly – and with as much concentration as he could muster – he went out in front of the building, got into the car when it arrived, and had himself driven home.

It took much longer than usual to climb the stairs to his room. On the way up, he glanced into the living room and kitchen but didn't see his flatmate. Sherlock was probably still trying to find the man they'd observed in front of One Canada Square. John resolved to send Sherlock a message as soon as he was in bed.

He rolled onto his mattress, aching bones and roaring headache and all, and moaned in pain when he touched the dressing that was wrapped around his forehead. It felt hot. When the world around him had stopped spinning, he wrote a message to Sherlock.

_Where are you? Everything OK? Got into a scrap with Rankmore. Home now. – John_

To be sure, that didn't even begin to explain what had happened, but it would have to suffice for the moment. At least Jeff hadn't seemed to suspect they were on his trail. The attack had been motivated by much different reasons. But at least Jeff would think twice before setting anyone up for an ambush again after the exchange of blows... He was probably worse off than John. The sound of bone grinding against bone drilled itself into John's memory.

He desperately hoped that the skirmish wouldn't impinge on the actual investigation into the case of the chameleon killings. He'd never forgive himself if... he squeezed his eyes shut in despair and suppressed the trembling that tried to seize hold of his body.

When his phone alert sounded, he turned on the screen.

_Lost him. Network activated. On my way home. Are you OK? – SH_

John found himself unwilling to answer, and wearily let the hand holding his phone drop to the bed. There wasn't any point to any of this... they simply weren't making any progress. He rolled tiredly onto his side, drew up his legs as far as his aching limbs allowed, and buried his face in his pillow. For a moment... just for a moment, he wanted to forget about the world around him and not think about anything – or anyone – anymore.

 

*****

 

"John..."

A hand touched his shoulder, warm and comforting. He didn't want to open his eyes, didn't want to blow away the fog that had settled on his consciousness, firmly ensconcing him and staving off the pain that lurked just beyond the edges.

"John," the voice urged, and he gave in with a pained sigh. He blinked, trying to make something out. It was still dark in his room. A figure outlined by a halo of light stood in front of the lamp on his nightstand, bending over him. Someone had opened the window, and along with the ever present street sounds, a cool breeze wafted through the close space.

"Sherlock..." John whispered and closed his eyes again. His body felt as if it had been shattered into a thousand pieces and only loosely reassembled. He felt his forehead, touched the bandage there, and groaned. Images of the past few hours reminded him of the altercation, the intoxicating combination of adrenaline and fear that had ensured his survival.

Sherlock looked him over with an assessing gaze. John wasn't going to have to give a blow-by-blow account; everything was written on his face.

"They don't know we were following them because of the murders," he explained anyway.

Sherlock frowned for a moment, his eyes flicking back and forth between John's, searching for something.

"Then why did they...?" Without finishing the question, Sherlock reached his hand out toward John and gently rubbed his thumb across his chin, which was slowly changing colour.

John turned his face away, cursing the lump in his throat. "Because another man and I..." The rest of the sentence hovered unspoken between them.

Sherlock felt all of the warmth seep out of him. John exhaled a shaky breath from his lungs and laid his arm over his eyes. He tried to calm himself with deep breaths, but kept stumbling into the whirlpool of his despair. He squeezed his eyes shut angrily and fought back the burning behind his lids.

He heard Sherlock get up and leave the room, then go down the stairs. A hint of regret flickered to life in John's chest, part of him having hoped that Sherlock would understand him. That his best friend would be capable of empathising with him and setting aside his own mess for just a second to dispense a little comfort. But that was asking too much, he thought bitterly.

He was therefore even more surprised when the stairs creaked again, and Sherlock came back into the room. He closed the door and approached the bed. The mattress sank beside John. The light went out. The man beside him shifted his weight, tugged the blanket out from under him, and slipped underneath it. Sherlock's narrow, angular figure nestled up against John's back and legs, putting his arm around him and drawing him into an implacable embrace. John registered somewhere in the back of his mind that Sherlock had taken off his coat and changed into a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

John's breath could no longer find its way out of his lungs and his heart must surely have stopped beating. He was utterly unable to react to the encroachment in any manner whatsoever. Something pressed gently against the back of his head, against the bandage and his hair.

"It's not right," Sherlock whispered. "No one should be punished for loving..."

The warm words sent a shiver through John: small, irregular quivers that shook him deeply. A silent tear rolled over the bridge of his nose onto the other side of his face and disappeared in the pillow beneath his head.

 

*****

 

When John woke up, it was morning. The sun flooded the room with pink light, and the first birds were twittering excitedly to greet the day. He was alone. He struggled painfully out of bed and glanced at his alarm. _5:37 a.m._ His body seemed to have reset to early morning again.

He fought his way into an upright position, shuffled into the bathroom, and held himself up against the sink. For the first time since the fight, he looked in the mirror. And let out a heartfelt groan. The wide bandage around his head had slipped a bit, making his hair look even messier than usual. His face was dotted with various blue and red marks on his chin, cheek, and the bit of eyebrow that peeked out from under the white gauze. Smaller scratches and scrapes were already forming scabs on the places where the skin lay directly over bone.

He got out of his clothes at the cost of considerable pain and stepped into the shower to quickly rinse off. He left his head out, making sure not to get the dressing wet. After he'd dried off and cleaned his teeth, he went back into his room to get dressed. His eye fell on the empty bed.

 _Did Sherlock sleep here?_ John wondered. He picked up his phone and rang the hospital to leave a message that he wouldn't be coming in today as he'd been involved in an accident and was suffering from concussion.

He went to the kitchen and filled the electric kettle for his morning tea. The chaos on the kitchen table testified that Sherlock had been working on his experiment. John let his eye wander over the various objects, but couldn't make heads or tails of whatever he was doing.

At least John could give a negative response to the question of whether Sherlock had slept beside him: when he entered the living room with his mug, he found Sherlock lying on the couch asleep, his arms folded. Why had he left John's bed and come to lie here rather than sleeping a few metres further on in his own bed? The fact that he'd comforted John the night before until he'd fallen asleep hovered in the space between them like a surreal memory.

John went to stand by the window and drink his tea. There wasn't much going on in the street outside 221B at this time of the morning. The sky was already bright blue, and it was shaping up to be a beautiful spring day. John turned around with a sigh and regarded his flatmate, his deep breaths seeming to be the only sound in the house. They had a rather calming effect on John.

 _What in the world does he see in me?_ John wondered, pursing his lips. There was no logical explanation for why Sherlock should have fallen in love with him, of all people. Sherlock, who maintained that _love_ was a foreign concept to him, who viewed sentiment as superfluous and even dangerous. What had changed to make his convictions fall so completely apart?

_How quickly lifelong convictions can change, hm?_

Maybe he hadn't made that statement to John, but to himself. Maybe he had been so overwhelmed by the developments within him that he simply hadn't yet found a way to express his emotions outwardly. And now he was seeking answers. Answers and an echo, a response, to help him understand the mystery behind such an ungovernable power.

 _I wonder how I would have reacted if he'd confessed his feelings to me earlier..._ John thought to himself. He had to admit that his reaction would have been rather shocked and dismissive, as it had been his whole life whenever the topic of homosexuality was brought up in connection to him. A protective mechanism. Survival instinct. Could anyone blame him?

And there was also the lack of experience. Someone like Sherlock would need some kind of instructions in order to deal with the muddle of a relationship; after all, he'd never allowed anything like it in his vicinity before. As for John, it was brand new to even think about sex with a man. John huffed contemptuously when he recalled that Sherlock clearly already had more than enough experience with the physical aspects of a relationship. _When you look at it like that, we complement each other quite well..._ A jolt went through John and heat shot into his face, turning his cheeks red. _What the hell am I thinking about?!_

As he continued to debate himself, John went back into the kitchen to pour himself another mug of tea. _What an absurd notion!_ he decided and tore open the refrigerator to get out the milk. He was staring into the reddish-brown liquid in his mug when he remembered Victor's comment on the phone.

_He'll take you apart piece by piece. And you'll let him._

John swallowed numbly. What had Victor meant by that? The cloud of milk quickly dispersed in the tea as John stirred it absent-mindedly. Still thinking, he stuck the spoon in his mouth. Was that statement intended to scare him off or make him curious?

"Will you hand me a cup too?"

Startled, John jumped around and immediately flinched at the abrupt motion. A thunderbolt went through his head and ran all the way down to his feet.

"Ow... damn it... I didn't hear you..." he griped, holding his throbbing temple.

Sherlock came over to stand next to him and took a mug out of the cabinet, set it down on the counter, and reached for the teapot to pour himself some.

"Have you taken a pain pill yet?" he asked offhandedly, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to his tea.

"Not yet..." John muttered. Why was he so confused? For some reason, it felt odd to stand next to Sherlock. He couldn't explain it; nothing had changed between them. They were still looking for Greg, who quite possibly was going through hell right now. Feelings of guilt arose in John's chest, which he hastily tried to cover up with a sip from his mug.

Beside him, Sherlock slowly blew out a breath, his eyes fixed on his own mug. "You should put the mug down," Sherlock said, slowly turning to John.

Puzzled, John frowned but did as he suggested. He looked up at Sherlock expectantly, waiting for some explanation, comment, or other clue which would clarify what was going on with his flatmate.

Sherlock sighed again, giving the impression of being contrite. It almost looked as if there were feelings of guilt reflected in his expression.

"What's wrong?" John demanded to know.

"I had actually wanted to tell you yesterday, but..." Sherlock lifted his hand helplessly, gesturing at the bandage around John's head. "I didn't want to risk your condition getting worse..."

"What... is it?"

"We found him..." Sherlock answered.

The words were clear and unmistakable, but they echoed in John's ears, only to be replaced by a buzzing that seemed to vibrate across his skin. All of a sudden, he found it difficult to form a clear thought, to comprehend the words as fact and draw conclusions from them.

"W-what... when...?" he stammered in disbelief, followed by: "Is he alive?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Where is he? How is he?" John asked once he thought he had himself more or less under control. He propped himself up on his left hand, hiding the trembling, not knowing whether it reflected relief or panic. Or both.

Sherlock pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth, as if he would prefer to avoid saying the next words. "At Bart's..." he finally said timidly. "He's in intensive care."

 

+++

tbc


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John stared absently out the window during the entire taxi ride. He jiggled his right leg nervously and chewed on his knuckles without realising he was doing so. Sherlock sat beside him, letting his gaze wander over to his flatmate from time to time, only to sigh and look back out the window. They hadn't exchanged a single word since leaving Baker Street.

John had no idea which way was up anymore. On the one hand, he was relieved Greg was alive; on the other, he was frustrated because Greg was in intensive care, angry because Sherlock hadn't told him about it last night, and anxious over what might await him. He hadn't dared prod Sherlock any further about Greg's condition. He basically hadn't been able to get out a single word that would have made any sense.

The irony of the fact that he and Greg had probably been at the hospital at the same time last night gnawed its way through his mind. If he'd known that, he probably wouldn't have gone back home. He automatically thought of Sherlock, the way he'd put his arms around John and comforted him. Would he have wanted to miss that? He certainly didn't want to risk Sherlock falling prey to any false hopes based on that moment of weakness, of desperation. On the other hand, Sherlock had obviously removed himself from the scene immediately as soon as John had fallen asleep, so there was really no reason to worry about it... right?

The taxi pulled to a stop in front of St Bartholomew's Hospital, and they got out and went to the information desk to ask where they would find Greg. John was surprised that his voice sounded calmer than he felt. He knew the young man who sat behind the information desk, and the latter eyed John with a combination of scepticism and concern; John's appearance must have raised a few questions he wasn't prepared to answer at the moment. He told them Greg was through the worst of it, but was still in intensive care for observation. For that reason, only family members were allowed to see him.

John huffed with frustration. He worked there, so he would find a way to visit Greg anyway, but he still found the notion bothersome that he wouldn't have been allowed to see him if he'd ended up in a different hospital.

Sherlock had stood listlessly behind him the whole time, observing the situation. They now walked together to the room where Greg was. John knocked and opened the door. A nurse appeared immediately in his line of sight, preventing him from going in.

"I'm sorry, the patient is being treated right now. I'm going to have to ask you to wait a moment. I'll let you know when he's done," she explained and gestured toward the waiting area.

Sherlock realised that John wasn't moving. He wrapped an arm around his shoulder, nodded brusquely to the nurse, and firmly navigated his friend down the hall. John was as white as a sheet. He'd only been able to get a brief glimpse of Greg, less than the space of a heartbeat. But it had been enough to make the gravity of the situation clear to him.

Of course, from that distance and with such a short glance, he couldn't allow himself to form an opinion. In addition, he was emotionally compromised and in poor condition himself, which further clouded his judgment. Sherlock stepped into his line of vision, holding out a cup of tea, which John accepted gratefully. The heat of the beverage transferred to his hands, moving pleasantly up through his arms.

"I apologise," Sherlock said at some point from his position beside him, "for not having told you yesterday. I wanted to, but when you wrote that you and Rankmore had got into it, I wanted to make sure that you were all right first. And that was obviously not the case..." His soft, deep voice was downright soporific.

John registered with displeasure that he was still a long way from having recovered. He felt weak, dizzy, and slightly disorientated. In addition, his temples hurt and his limbs ached with even the slightest movement. And he now remembered that he'd forgot to take his pills that morning. He merely nodded lethargically to signal that he'd understood Sherlock. He had no idea what else to say. He couldn't hold it against his friend for wanting to shield him from the shock. He took a sip of his tea.

John had no idea how long they waited. His eyes kept sliding over to the clock on the wall of the waiting area, but all he registered was that the hands were moving. Slowly. As if time wanted to trap them here for the rest of their lives. Patients and visitors came and went. Sherlock got up, tapped around on his phone, checked out the selection in the snack machine without buying anything, came back, and sat down again.

They looked up when they heard hasty footsteps. Sally Donovan hurried down the corridor and took up position in front of the two men. Her expression was a mosaic of worry, fear, euphoria, and surprise.

"How is he?" she demanded to know.

Sherlock stood up as if he couldn't stand not being eye to eye with the woman who constantly challenged him.

"We haven't been allowed in to see him yet," he explained, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, prepared to fend off the next barb.

But Sally seemed to be as overwhelmed by the situation as John was. Or close to it. She nodded curtly and sat down next to John, only to pop right back up and pace back and forth, unable to relax for so much as a second.

John watched her until it became too much for him, then stared down at his hands again. He was surprised Sally didn't know about Greg's condition. Hadn't she been there when he was found? He looked up at Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock returned his gaze.

"Yes," he said as if he were able to read John's question in his face. "She was there..."

John let a shaky breath out of his lungs. If Sally had been there for Greg's rescue then she knew what state he was in. The fact that she was so nervous could therefore only mean that his condition was worse than he'd feared. It was true that Sally tended to express her emotions without a filter, but John couldn't say whether she was overdoing things with her panic or not.

"Sherlock..." John's voice sounded hollow, not like his own. "What happened? What did they do to him?"

Sherlock met his gaze, searching it thoroughly before answering. "Not here, John."

"Doctor Watson?"

John turned to the voice and saw Doctor Raj, who had treated him the night before. This time, however, she was wearing a silk blouse and a long skirt in place of the white coat. A leather handbag hung over her shoulder. She was apparently just getting off work. She approached, giving John a searching look. Numerous creases in her forehead reflected her concern.

"Is everything all right? Are you doing worse?" she asked and sat down beside him.

John somehow managed to conjure a smile onto his lips and shake his head slowly. "I'm all right. We're not here for me..." he explained, his eyes sliding over to Sherlock then Sally and back to the doctor. She gave him a quizzical look, as if the statement were insufficient for her.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said, not clarifying the relationship between himself and the others in the room.

The doctor nodded her understanding and looked over at Sherlock. For a moment, recognition flared in her eyes; she'd probably seen his picture in the newspaper. John had no idea whether she was drawing her own conclusions, possibly even assuming that this all had something to do with the attack on John. It didn't matter. She wouldn't ask him, and he wouldn't tell.

When the nurse approached who had ejected them from Greg's room earlier, John leapt up from his seat. The worry that he'd pushed into the background during the long wait now stumbled forward into his consciousness, infiltrating him down to the last fibre of his being.

"Doctor Watson, you can see him now. But no longer than ten minutes. He urgently needs rest. Please try not to wake him," she said as she led the three visitors into the room.

The attending physician had already left, and the nurse was also kind enough to leave them alone for a moment.

John didn't even notice Sherlock putting his hand on Sally's wrist to hold her back. She gave him an indignant look, but he just shook his head and returned her gaze coolly. She actually appeared to understand, and hung back beside him rather than going to stand by Greg's bed.

A strange calm came over John when he looked down at the man in the hospital bed. He'd had a nasal tube inserted, and a saline solution infused with medications slowly dripped from the bag hanging beside his bed into the IV in his hand. John could see a dressing over Greg's shoulder peeking out from underneath the gown they'd put on him. He also had bruises scattered along his arms like ink blots on white paper. His face didn't look any better. The dark rings under his eyes merged seamlessly with the purple and red haematomas; scrapes and scratches crusted with dried blood decorated his face in several places.

John swallowed hard. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a switch flipped, shifting him into doctor mode. With the experience borne of years of professional training, he reached for the clipboard attached to the foot of the bed and scanned the patient's information. He read the test results, flipped to the second page, and automatically catalogued their meanings, cool and detached, as if he didn't have a personal connection to the person in the bed. As if his heart weren't squeezing painfully at the sight of the suffering his friend was going through. His body a map of the hell he must have been subjected to.

He hung the clipboard back on its hook and cleared his throat, unsure what he should do now. Helpless, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and gazed at Greg's face, so different now than just a few days ago. It would heal, he told himself, but right now it was hard to take.

"Will you tell me what happened now?" he asked without looking at the detective or the sergeant. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sally whip her head around and glare at Sherlock. She obviously couldn't believe he still hadn't clued John in. She huffed contemptuously.

"Greg's been on the trail of a drug ring for a while. He stumbled across that gym you're also a member of... or were. It's been shut down. Anyway, he went undercover as a member to get to the bottom of things and found out that some … well... _former_ colleagues from the drugs squad were involved. There's an investigation running against them now. At first it didn't look like any of this was related to the chameleon killings. But it turned out that Bridget Tanner was a heavy user and had apparently siphoned off some of the stuff for herself that she was supposed to distribute to the gym members. The first victim, on the other hand, had pocketed some of the profits and planned to leave the country. They caught up to him first. The masterminds behind it all weren't exactly well pleased about it and wanted to send a signal with the dealer's death as a kind of deterrent," she explained neutrally.

The nurse came into the room, giving them an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, but you really need to leave now," she urged them, holding the door open for the three visitors.

John took a step closer to Greg and leaned over him. His lips very gently touched the corner of Greg's mouth. "Get back on your feet soon, okay?" he whispered then turned away quickly to put some distance between himself and the pain. With his jaws clenched, he went through the door, feeling Sally's piercing gaze on him all too clearly. Sherlock didn't even seem to be mentally present, staring at the floor instead. He followed up at the rear.

They gathered in the hospital cafeteria. Sally bought herself a black coffee; Sherlock and John didn't drink anything. There were only a couple of hospital employees and a handful of patients in the sprawling hall, which was filled with cold, white light. The breakfast rush hadn't started yet.

"Anyway," Sally continued once she'd taken a big gulp of her coffee, "Sherlock discovered the connection to the string pullers through the first victim. It looks like their reach is far greater than we'd thought."

Sherlock interrupted her there. "It appears to be a global operation. Drug trafficking is only one of the games they're playing. We don't have any names yet... I've only been able to find out the initials of the man we were watching in front of the One Canada Square building. Unfortunately, I lost him... he's rather good at letting the earth swallow him up..." Sherlock explained. John saw the hard line around his mouth that always appeared when he was unsuccessful at catching a criminal. The frustration at not being able to decide the game in his favour.

"What are they?" John asked; he was taking in the information but wasn't sure how much he'd be able to remember by tomorrow. His head throbbed dully, and the dizziness had barely abated.

"S.M.," Sherlock answered, gazing off into the distance. For a moment silence fell over the round table.

"One of the officers got cold feet and passed on information to Greg. Or at least that's how it looked. We're still trying to figure out if he wanted out or if the whole thing was a setup from the beginning," Sally resumed the narrative.

"Why him? Why would they set a trap for Greg, of all people? He didn't even think there was a connection between the two cases," John interjected. "His disappearance was what brought the puzzle pieces together in the first place!"

Sally and Sherlock were silent.

John looked back and forth between the two. "You don't know, do you?"

They both shook their head as if apologising for their ignorance. A pained sigh escaped from John's throat. He leaned his pounding head on his hand and drummed his fingers on the table top.

"What... does the chameleon have to do with it all?" John asked unhappily.

Sherlock leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and folded his hands under his chin. "When Bridget was found, we assumed it would give us a lead on the killer. The chameleon of course is well known for being able to assimilate with its surroundings. A person who is known as a chameleon is therefore someone who can assimilate in both a positive and a negative sense, who blends in and conceals his true intentions. Someone who cannot be trusted, in other words. In parts of Africa, the chameleon is associated with death. As a messenger of the gods, it was tasked with bringing immortality to mankind; it dawdled so long, however, that the gods became angry and sent a bird instead. But the bird brought mortality. Some Africans assign blame to the chameleon for the fact that we are mortal," Sherlock explained.

"So what conclusions can we draw from that?" John asked, crinkling his brow.

"None. The fact is that the third dealer, Jeffrey Rankmore, does not have a chameleon tattoo, thus negating the theory that it has anything to do with the drug ring. However, I did have a look round the first victim's flat and concluded that he and Bridget were having an affair."

Sherlock reached into his coat and pulled out his iPhone, turned it on, and set it on the table so the others could see the image on the screen. It showed a drawing of Cupid with his hand wrapped around a small chameleon.

"Otto van Veen, a sixteenth-century Flemish painter, once said the chameleon was a symbol of the willingness of lovers to compromise..." he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Sentiment," he muttered grimly.

"That means it was... what? … some kind of couples tattoo? That's it?" John asked somewhat incredulously.

Sherlock nodded, and Sally drained her coffee cup.

"I wonder whether that fellow had anything to do with Bridget's drug use... and with her ending up as part of the drug ring..." John mused thoughtfully, more to himself than to the other two.

"Hard to say. It could just as easily have been the other way round..." Sherlock pointed out. "The autopsy results indicate she'd been addicted for months. Maybe he wanted to help her get out, build a new life... maybe that's why he wanted to leave the country... with her."

John recalled his conversations with Bridget to his mind, trying to remember whether she'd ever mentioned a boyfriend or plans to leave the country, but try as he might, he couldn't think of anything. In the end, it didn't have any relevance to the case whether it had happened one way or the other. Bridget had messed up. She'd paid with her life, and might well be responsible for the death of another person too. Beyond that, she'd pushed hard drugs and done God knew what damage. He shouldn't feel sorry for her. And yet he did.

John sighed. The cafeteria was filling up by now, and the general buzz of voices settled over the three of them like a swarm of insects. They decided to leave. Sally said good-bye curtly in front of the hospital, her otherwise cheeky tongue stiff and heavy in her mouth. She was taking the whole thing harder than she'd ever admit, and somehow that made her a teensy bit more likable, in John's opinion. He and Sherlock strolled up to the main road, got a taxi, and rode back home.

Once on Baker Street, John sat on the couch in the living room and ran both hands tiredly over his face. He was still a little dizzy and nauseous, most likely because he hadn't eaten anything. But just the thought of anything edible increased the queasiness he was feeling. He looked up and tried to catch his flatmate's eye when Sherlock set a glass of water on the table in front of him.

"Here," Sherlock said, handing him a blister-pack of painkillers.

"Thanks..." John answered, and swallowed two of the pills with a copious amount of water. Moaning softly, he sank back against the couch and closed his eyes. His head felt as if it were packed in cotton wool, and he wanted nothing more than for the pain to finally go away. If he was suffering this much following that _little_ altercation, what must Greg be going through? The thought scared him. He still felt Sherlock watching him, and opened his eyes. Sherlock abruptly turned away and went into the kitchen.

"Sherlock..."

He paused.

"What did they do to Greg? What condition was he in when you found him?" John asked quietly. He didn't know if he really wanted an answer to the question, but something in him was begging to know everything. Maybe the conversation would lead to why Greg was the one who had ended up in that situation. John realised Sherlock's posture had tensed up.

"He was in a cellar... strung up by his hands, his feet barely touching the floor..." – _dislocated shoulders_ – "like the first victim. They'd beaten and kicked him..." – _haematomas, bruises, scrapes_ – "and he was seriously dehydrated." _Delirium, kidney biopsy ordered:_ the information from the patient file flashed through John's mind of its own accord. "They'd kept him alive but it was a close thing... I..." Sherlock turned to John, profound regret written all over his face. "I should have done something sooner... I should have found him... should have... prevented it all... I'm sorry, I truly am..."

John stared into the empty space between them. Sherlock had made it clear from the start that he wasn't interested in the case. Of course, John had assumed it was all related to his jealousy, but in the end he'd assisted the Yard – and Greg – with the investigation. John couldn't say whether he might have deduced what was happening any better or faster. He still fancied he knew Sherlock well enough at this point, and couldn't imagine the brilliant detective would actually let himself be stopped by any hurt feelings. No, that's not how Sherlock Holmes reacted...

"Why are you doing this?" John asked disapprovingly. "Why are you blaming yourself? I know you. You never would have turned down a case like this. Serial killers... You love serial killers! A fact that sometimes unsettles me, but at least I know you'd do everything you could to catch the killers. Even if the only point is to prove how clever you are!"

Sherlock struggled against the urge to cross his arms protectively over his chest. "I don't do that," he contradicted sullenly.

John scooted forward to the edge of the couch and got to his feet with some difficulty, wrestling down the pain that shot through his limbs. He stood in front of Sherlock, his eyebrows drawn together grimly.

"Was it… jealousy that impaired your judgment?" he asked incredulously.

Sherlock didn't dare to return his gaze. "Maybe..." he answered in a small voice. "Listen, of course I wanted to solve the case, but..." He broke off and pressed his lips together, still not willing to look at his flatmate and be confronted by his disappointment.

"But you wanted to make Greg look stupid? Let him run aground? Show that you're the cleverer one? It's not as if I didn't know that, Sherlock... Good Lord, no one's in the same class as you when it comes to solving cases! But when it comes to _human nature_ , you've got a whole bloody lot of catching up to do!" John's voice had become louder and louder, until he was virtually shouting at Sherlock. "Why did you suddenly change your mind? What made you realise all of a sudden that you were screwing up royally?"

Sherlock moved his head very slightly, lifted his chin and looked John directly in the eye. "You chose him," he said softly but firmly.

 _You chose him_. John's heart skipped a beat. There were those words again. That reproach, the suggestion of blame. But no, this time Sherlock was smiling; sad, resigned.

"Empathising with the victims doesn't save them... I've always held that view. But the worry in your eyes when Greg was abducted... I couldn't stand it. I should have prevented it happening in the first place," Sherlock said and turned away. "I only want you to be happy..."

John felt lightheaded. The room around him seemed to tilt, and there was a roaring sound in his ears. He stumbled to his chair and stabilised himself by holding the armrest. His heart was pumping blood like mad through his veins, and he was breathing shallowly, as if he could barely get any air. He reached for his bandaged head with trembling hands.

Sherlock, seeing that John was about to fall, took two steps toward him and reached for his shoulder to hold him up.

"John?!" he cried with concern.

But John didn't react. He was too busy remaining conscious. Black spots danced before his eyes. Sherlock pushed his flatmate firmly down into the armchair so he could rest, grasped his chin and lifted his head to check his pupils.

"You belong in bed, John. They shouldn't have let you go so soon... your condition is anything but stable. Come..." Sherlock said, more to himself than to his friend. He lifted John's arm, pushed his shoulder in underneath it, and heaved John's listless body up onto his back with some difficulty.

John registered as if from a distance as he landed on what seemed to be a sea of soft cloth and feathers, surrounded by a pleasant warmth and the scent of peonies. The sky above him was bright blue between towering clouds, and beneath his fingers he felt cool scales nestling up against him. Claws dug into his skin like barbs, until they broke through the surface and beads of blood welled up, dying the white sheets red. He heard footfalls in the grass. The huge paws were drawing closer to his blood-red island. The sun broke through the clouds, shining down on the predator.

But only the stripes in its fur cast their long shadows on John.

 

+++

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realise before that 'smack' is slang for heroin... I was thinking of 'hit', 'strike' or a 'slap'... *cough* Yeah, sometimes that's how things come together. :D


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody is perfect...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

The strange pictures that had snuck into John's dreams faded one by one when he woke up. It felt as if he were rising up out of a deep darkness, an airless room, to the surface of his consciousness. The soft pillow and duvet covers gently cradled his body, triggering a taciturn protest against awakening.

Before he opened his eyes, he registered the pleasant scent of primrose mixed with sandalwood and... _Sherlock?!_ A jolt went though John as he instinctively whipped his head around and checked his surroundings. His head started pounding and pain shot down his spine to his hip.

The room was dark, with only a bit of street light filtering in through the window, outlining the contours of the objects around him. It turned out he was in Sherlock's bedroom, in Sherlock's bed. Alone. He groaned softly behind clenched teeth as he painstakingly turned onto his back, stretched out his aching limbs, and ran his hands over his face and the bandage which was still wrapped around his forehead.

He made an effort to remember how and why he'd ended up here. In Sherlock's bloody bed. He forcefully expelled the air from his lungs, which felt as if someone were squeezing them from the outside. He slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, flung the cover aside, and swung his legs out of bed. His sense of balance needed a moment longer to adjust to the change and was slow to catch up.

John seemed to recall that they'd rowed – again. No, not a true quarrel, more like a discussion... a discussion over why Sherlock had changed his mind about the case and decided to help Greg after all.

_You chose him._

_I only want you to be happy..._

He choked down the strange feeling that took up residence in his throat. Sherlock's care and concern astonished him. They'd covered each other's backs and helped each other out in dangerous situations often enough, but the circumstances this time were completely different. It was _personal_.

John cautiously stood and staggered to the door. He shuffled down the corridor, through the kitchen, and peeked into the living room, where Sherlock sat in front of his laptop, his fingers flying like the wind across the keyboard. When he saw John, he stood up and came into the kitchen.

"How are you?" he asked, a trace of worry in his voice.

John nodded sluggishly and used the kitchen counter to prop himself up, as he didn't quite trust his balance yet.

"Better... I think."

"Should I make you some tea? Something to eat? You could have stayed in bed and called me..."

John turned to his flatmate, letting out an amused snort. "That's fairly creepy, you know? Seeing you so worried about me..." he said and smiled sadly. When he considered everything that had needed to happen for Sherlock to open up to him even this small amount. How was he supposed to deal with this godawful mess anyway?

Sherlock looked down at his hand where it rested on the kitchen counter, apparently considering how to answer that. Whether to answer it. He sighed softly and tried to catch John's eye, only to immediately look away again, as if he weren't up to it.

"You've never been so... I wish that..." The endings of his sentences didn't seem to want to move past his lips. He bit the inside of his cheek, turned away, and went over to the electric kettle to fill it.

"What...?"

"Nothing..."

The air between them was so thick, so heavy, that John almost felt as if he were under water and slowly suffocating.

"He'll be back on his feet in no time. Greg's tough..." Sherlock said as he dropped teabags into the mugs.

A thin smile passed across John's lips. "I do believe that's the first time you've used his _proper_ name..."

"Is that so?" Sherlock asked innocently, still avoiding looking at John.

"At least the first time no one had to point out your mistake," John replied, watching as Sherlock poured the boiling water into the mugs. "On the other hand, you never make mistakes..." he added with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. Sherlock merely made a sound expressing his agreement.

"Thank you," John said haltingly. Now Sherlock did look at his flatmate, a hint of bewilderment on his face. "For accepting it... the thing with Greg… and still being my friend... and for taking care of me. You even let me sleep in your bed. Thanks."

Sherlock stood there completely motionless for a moment that seemed to go on forever, staring into the mugs and watching the tea slowly dissolving in the hot water and turning it amber.

"I apologise for having said I didn't have any friends. You know... you know my true feelings on the matter..." Sherlock said, now daring to meet John's gaze head on. John's stomach clenched a little at the look in his eyes, which seemed to speak of so much more than friendship. He nodded weakly, not at all certain whether they were talking about the same thing.

"I know," he replied simply, clearing his throat cautiously.

They drank their tea and cooked a little something to eat as well, even though it was almost midnight. They ate silently in the kitchen. Afterwards, John went up the stairs to his room while Sherlock anxiously listened to each footfall, ready to jump up and help him if necessary. When the door to John's room quietly closed, the tension drained from his body and he let his shoulders drop wearily.

 

*****

 

John's dreams were filled with all kinds of confusing images again. Shoulder-high grass surrounded him on all sides, above him the sunset-red sky. He felt crowded in, constricted, and wanted to free himself from the undergrowth as quickly as possible, but no matter which direction he walked, there didn't seem to be any way out.

He ran faster and faster, becoming more and more desperate, swimming through the sea of grass stalks, flailing his arms wildly in order to escape his confinement. He couldn't see where he was going. The stalks bent beneath the soles of his feet, only to spring right back up to their full height as soon as his weight was removed from them.

His flight was so frantic that he got tangled up in the grass; the blades wrapped around his legs, making him fall. He instinctively flung his arms up in front of his face to protect his head from the impact. He landed hard on the ground, rolled over and over through the grass, and finally came to a halt lying on his stomach, gasping.

He'd landed in a clearing. A perfect circle, completely bare except for a pine tree whose trunk was curved like a C. The green needles reached for the sky, and a strange buzzing sound seemed to be coming from them. Just as John was about to pick himself up, a fox came trotting around the tree, only to stop in its tracks when it caught sight of the man. Yellow eyes fixed on him and pointed ears twitched, as if sorting through the sounds of the surroundings.

A hectic rustling rippled through the sea of grass. John turned toward the sound. In the next moment, a tiger leapt out from between the stalks, its jaws open wide and claws extended, ready to tear him to shreds. John flung his arms over his head in self-defence.

All around him it was dark and quiet. The only sounds penetrating the stillness of the room were his frantic breaths and his galloping heartbeat. He sighed heavily and let his arms drop onto the bed on either side. His heart was still racing.

_It was just a dream_ , he reproached himself, trying to filter out the pain in his limbs as he turned onto his side to sleep some more.

 

*****

 

Next day, after John had checked the condition of his wound, showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth, and applied a fresh dressing to his injury, he took the Circle Line to the Barbican stop and walked from there to St Bartholomew's Hospital. He went directly to the room where Greg was and knocked. When there was no response, he tried again, this time pushing down on the handle and slowly opening the door, peering into the brightly lit room.

Greg wasn't there. John noted with irritation that the bed was freshly made and nothing in the entire room indicated that anyone was staying there. The patient file was also missing from the end of the bed. A flutter of panic overtook him. He let the door fall shut and hurried to the information desk to inquire after his friend's whereabouts.

The woman behind the counter studied his disquieted expression with surprise, gently shaking her head and explaining to John as calmly as possible that they'd merely transferred the Detective Inspector to another room, and there was no need for him to worry. Before his desperation could turn into anger at her slow-moving speech, she gave him the floor and room number and directed her attention once again to her computer screen.

John took the lift up to the second floor and walked down the corridor, which was lined with a larger number of separate rooms. A break room for the nurses was the only interruption in the endless series of doors. Each one had a small window in it so that one could see from outside whether anyone was in the room, and who it was. He stopped in front of room number 2.37.1, and quickly checked the label beside the door. _Gregory Lestrade_ was printed in neat letters on a piece of paper that had been inserted into the plastic frame.

John breathed a sigh of relief. Through the glass, he had a direct view of the bed where Greg lay, his head tilted toward the window and his eyes closed. The nasal tube had been removed but there was still a line in the back of his hand, although it wasn't attached to a drip at the moment. John turned the handle and hesitantly went in. Torn between worry over waking the other man and happiness at seeing him, he knocked on the wooden surface twice in order to announce his presence.

Greg turned his head toward him with a suppressed growl that expressed either annoyance or pain. His expression brightened immediately, however, as far as it was possible to determine with all of his injuries.

"John..." he mumbled between swollen lips.

John forced himself to smile, closed the door quietly behind him, and went over to the bed. He noticed that he was shaking like a leaf, and that his stride must not appear very steady. On the way he grabbed a chair standing by the wall, hauled it over next to the bed, and sat down. All without taking his eyes off Greg for a moment.

He took Greg's hand, careful not to touch the IV line, and gingerly rubbed his cheek against the cool wrist. His eyelids fluttered and a deep sigh escaped his throat. He wanted to ask how Greg was doing, whether he was in pain, but that seemed rather ridiculous, even rhetorical.

His eyes flickered back and forth between Greg's pupils, filled with worry. He wondered how long the bruises and other injuries would take to heal.

"I'm so glad you're alive..." John whispered, his lips still pressed against Greg's wrist.

Greg swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Beneath his lids, his eyeballs twitched restlessly back and forth, and John guessed that the images from the past few days must be rushing through his mind. He felt an urge to apologise. He would have liked nothing more than to take this burden away from his friend, if there were any way of doing so.

"What happened to you?" Greg asked in a feeble voice. But John just shook his head lightly and closed his eyes.

"Not important..."

"John..."

"I had a difference of opinion with Jeff and Phil..." he finally explained. "They set me up for an ambush. But it had nothing to do with the case. You know... you really should have told me the real reason why you came to _Smax_... from the beginning, I mean... I could have helped you."

"I didn't want to drag you into it. I couldn't have known that drug ring was in cahoots with the chameleon killer. And anyway..." Greg cut himself off, lifted his free hand to his head with visible difficulty, and rubbed his wounded face. "I can't always let _other_ people do my job for me," he concluded, looking to the side, embarrassed.

John watched him for a moment before answering. "You don't mean Sherlock, do you?" he asked flat out, his voice tinged with incredulity. It was true that he'd often wondered how Greg handled letting an outsider solve cases for Scotland Yard, even putting his own job at risk in doing so. In the meantime, however, he'd come to know Greg well enough that he understood he only had the best intentions behind his actions, and above all that he wanted to prevent as many victims as possible.

Sherlock showing up must have been a downright godsend for him, even if it meant that Greg had to deal with derision and ridicule from his colleagues in return. But Greg seemed to be above all that, not to be bothered by the mocking comments that people like Donovan and Anderson made on a daily basis. Although he handed many of his cases over to Sherlock, he was still in charge of his team and doled out words of reprimand whenever it was necessary.

Greg stretched the fingers of the hand resting against John's face, tenderly touching his cheek without really being able to caress it. The tentative motion was already hard enough for him.

"You look terrible," he joked and grinned impishly, which looked a little strange on his maltreated face.

John laughed gently and shook his head with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

"You're one to talk..." he retorted waspishly, and both of them broke out in restrained laughter that echoed in each one of their aching bones. Before it had completely faded, John leaned over Greg and kissed him. Desperation and melancholy took the place of his brief-lived joy, knotting up his lungs and sinking into his stomach like a heavy stone.

"I couldn't solve half of my damn cases without Sherlock, John. He's a blessing and a curse rolled into one," Greg said once they'd pulled away from each other.

"You don't need to tell me," John huffed in agreement. "It's like he's a whole different person lately. He's nice to others, makes an effort, is courteous... it's almost spooky!" A helpless chuckle followed his statement, and John could have kicked himself for having revealed even those observations. At least his mind had cottoned on soon enough before confessing that the changes only related to him, to John.   
Greg gave him a tired smile. "He's in love with you..." he said simply, and watched as a touch of pink settled on John's cheeks.

"W-what are you talking about?! That's nonsense... You know Sherlock!" John blurted out in his defence, suddenly feeling like a rebellious teenager. "He doesn't even know... what that is. Anyway... that Victor Trevor you told me about showed up and stirred things up quite a bit. You should have seen it... The two of them really don't seem to get on that well!" John pressed his lips together and looked off to the side.

His inexplicable nervousness was making him say things he'd actually wanted to keep to himself. At least for now. Revealing to Greg that Victor was in town was intended to show that Sherlock could hardly be in love with John if he already had a boyfriend, and yet... and yet that particular train of thought now seemed rather small-minded. Being together didn't necessarily mean being in love, as little as not being together meant not being in love... He bit down on his lips.

Greg looked up at the ceiling. "So Trevor's back in town," he said, letting out something between a sigh and a harrumph. "That must mean something's going on..." he added.

"What do you mean?" John asked, visibly annoyed.

"I've only seen the man once in my life, mind, but Sherlock once told me that they were just friends, that they... how did he put it?... that they owed each other something. They have some kind of pact. Don't ask me what it was or is, but he made it very clear it's not love. More like emergency assistance or something..." Greg explained.

_Emergency assistance_... what was that supposed to mean?

"John, sorry... I'm pretty knackered and I'd like to get some more sleep..." Greg said softly. He did look as if he hadn't had a wink of sleep in days, and the rest of his appearance didn't exactly contribute to a contradictory conclusion.

John leapt to his feet and nodded understandingly. "Of course. Sorry that I've kept you up so long!" he said and gently squeezed Greg's lower arm. He promised to come back soon then left the room. As soon as he had pulled the door shut behind him and was standing in the corridor, he glanced back one last time through the window and saw that Greg had already fallen back asleep.

 

*****

 

John visited Greg regularly over the next few days, spending a little longer by his bedside each time, even if it was only a few minutes. Greg needed a lot of rest but increasingly complained that he didn't want to lie around anymore, and very much wanted to go outside. Since he couldn't really get out of bed on his own, any excursions were out of the question.

They talked about this and that but mostly avoided speaking about the case. John got the distinct impression that Greg wasn't ready yet to talk about what had happened in the cellar, and he didn't want to push him. Greg's cases at the Yard had been taken over by Detective Inspector Dimmock, who had worked with Sherlock before and was more than willing to cooperate with him, even though John quickly realised that no friendship would ever develop between them.

Two weeks went by, and John's condition continued to improve. His ribs still hurt when they were touched, but the bruises had mostly disappeared and the wound on his forehead was almost healed. He barely saw Sherlock at all, and on those rare occasions when his flatmate was home, he complained about the Yard's incompetence and especially about Dimmock, whose work performance was supposedly worse than the rest of the rabble.

Up until now, they hadn't been able to gather any additional information about the mysterious man with the initials _S.M._ Every lead petered out in the depths of London's streets, somewhere between cobblestones and dark alleyways, run-down backyards and dubious gin palaces. Even the homeless network seemed to keep losing the trails which Sherlock painstakingly filtered out of even the tiniest of clues like no one else was capable of.

They kept hearing word of hideouts and drop points that addicts used as temporary shelters, but the police from the Yard rarely found anyone there when they arrived, and if they did, they were usually already dead. Overdosed. No further chameleons turned up, which Sherlock took as a confirmation of his theory concerning the couples tattoo. Instead, he gathered other clues, other symbols that seemed to have something to do with the mysterious network. They kept changing so frequently, however, that the trail always led nowhere.

Sherlock decided to drop in on a couple of his _informants_ who memorialised themselves on walls and the sides of buildings in order to get some tips about the artist – just as they'd done on the Black Lotus case. Since John was doing better and starting to get bored at home now that _Smax_ had been shut down, he suggested that he could accompany Sherlock.

Sherlock was visibly pleased at the suggestion, even if he never would have admitted it out loud. They got a taxi together and John could virtually feel Sherlock unfurling beside him. He must have missed John's constant companionship, his blogger, the person he could expound upon all his theories to, even if the only purpose it served was to say them out loud and not be deemed insane. Sherlock's racing mind seemed to work much better with silent affirmation than when others cut him off and rolled their eyes at him the way the police at the Yard usually did.

Sherlock extended his arm and handed John his iPhone with an encouraging smile. The screen displayed several pictures, snapshots which Sherlock had taken of various symbols over the last few days. Most of them were stylised animals or parts of animals: a paw, a snout, a bushy tail, less frequently a head or an entire body. It didn't take an expert to see that they were all done by the same hand, as the style was quite similar.

They finally met up with the young blond man whose name John couldn't recall at one of the many graffiti-strewn skate parks. John pursed his lips sceptically as he watched the youth study the pictures on Sherlock's phone and make one crass remark after another. John still hadn't forgiven the idiot for the hefty fine he'd had to pay for vandalism thanks to him, even though John hadn't done anything more than catch the can of spray paint which had been thrown at him. That wasn't going to happen to him again!

The kid didn't have any useful information at the moment but promised to keep his eyes open and report back if he found anything. Somewhat disappointed, Sherlock and John made their way back to the main road.

"I think I'll head over to the hospital," John said as soon as his friend had hailed the next taxi.

Sherlock paused and appeared to be considering something. "Perhaps it's best if you don't. You look at little..." He made a circular motion with his index finger in front of his face. "… peaky."

John raised an eyebrow sceptically. "I'm fine. And I'm going to a hospital – what could happen to me there?" he replied in a slightly defiant manner.

Sherlock huffed in resignation. "Fine, then why don't we go together? There are a couple of things I wanted to ask Lestrade anyway," he said and got into the black cab without waiting for his friend to agree.

Visibly annoyed, John walked around the cab, tore open the door, and slid into the back seat. He didn't even want to know why Sherlock wanted to talk to Greg precisely when John went to visit him. A fresh bout of jealousy? A test? He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

At St. Bartholomew's, they were walking along the corridor when a nurse waved to them and smiled, putting her gleaming white teeth on display. John nodded to her briefly before realising that her attention was all for his companion. _Ladykiller_... John thought to himself and suppressed a smirk.

"Hello, Mr Holmes! Back so soon?" she asked, pulling her lower lip in between her teeth suggestively.

"Obviously," Sherlock commented without paying her any further attention or slowing down one whit.

John gave him a somewhat bewildered look; _how did he know her?_

"When were you here?" he asked, watching the detective's stiff profile.

"Last night. I had some questions for the Inspector," Sherlock answered, but John couldn't shake the feeling that he was purposely being evasive. The use of the title must have been intended to distract John from that fact and make it sound as if they'd discussed work. Something strange was going on.

"And now you have more questions," John ascertained.

"Precisely," Sherlock replied without looking at him, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

Sherlock stopped just before they reached room 2.37.1. "I'll wait here," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

John nodded curtly, grateful that his friend was willing to give him some privacy. He walked the last couple of metres and peeked through the little window in the door.

Greg wasn't alone.

A woman sat sideways on the bed with her back to John. Long brown hair flowed down her slender shoulders and rose-coloured blouse. She was holding herself up with her left arm propped on the bed, leaning slightly toward the man who lay in it. A charming smile played on her red lips.

It was reflected on Greg's face. Strangely familiar. They were both laughing, as if one of them had made a joke. Greg rubbed his hand across his face and tilted his head to one side as he sometimes did when he was flirting. And she didn't seem to mind one bit. Quite the opposite. She bent over and kissed him. Greg lifted his hand to her cheek. Not to push her away, but simply to touch her. She kissed him again. He kissed her back.

John sucked as much air into his lungs as he could, until it felt as if they would burst. Then he let it out very slowly. He turned his head away – away from the door, away from Sherlock. This was clearly all some kind of misunderstanding. A misinterpretation of the situation. He hadn't seen the whole scene, just a small snippet. She could be anyone. A relative, a sister. _Greg doesn't have a sister_ , the voice in the back of his head corrected him, _and that was obviously not the sort of kiss you give to a cousin_...

As if taken possession of by a ghost, he reached for the door handle, only to stop mid-motion. The metal under his fingers was hard and cold; it felt foreign. He looked into the room again. The brunette had put her arms around Greg's neck, her lips moving continuously beside his ear without a single word filtering out to John. Her head blocked Greg's face, but John saw his hand gently rubbing the woman's back. John lowered his own hand and turned toward Sherlock, who stood just a few metres away, watching him attentively.

He'd known. He'd known what awaited John here, and he hadn't stopped it. He'd known that John might possibly see something that would hurt him deeply – and he hadn't stopped it! Anger bubbled up inside him. He clenched his hands into fists. His head was a complete muddle.

_No_ , the voice whispered, _no; he tried to stop me. I wouldn't have listened to him, would have chalked it up to jealousy and would have come anyway_.

He approached Sherlock and fixed him with a stern look.

"Since when?" he asked.

"Last night," Sherlock answered promptly. "As far as I know... I saw them purely by chance."

"Who...?" John faltered, choking back the rest of the question along with all the emotions closing off his throat.

"Elisabeth Lestrade. His ex-wife."

 

+++

tbc

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John felt as if he were floating in an airless chamber. The floor beneath his feet felt soft and spongy and the air settled like dust on the insides of his lungs. The strangest part was the temperature, which couldn't decide between hot and cold. First he felt the heat in his cheeks, his chest, then the cold shiver that ran down his spine to his feet. He was freezing.

Piece by piece, he gathered up the splinters of his thoughts, tried to put them together, to cement them, but they wouldn't fit, wouldn't interlock with each other. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Then another. And another. Making his decision, he turned away from Sherlock and went back to the door that led into the patient's room. His hand reached for the door handle as if it had a mind of its own, turned it clockwise, and allowed him entry.

Even before he raised his eyes, he felt two pairs of eyes resting on him. He was in no hurry to see the surprise, perhaps even the concern or the 'caught red-handed' look that would be there. And so he kept his eyes lowered. Until he was sure that the intimate moment he'd observed was really over. Until he'd found his courage and what should be the right words.

"Can we talk?" he asked in a strangely flat voice. It echoed in his ears. Empty, meaningless. He vaguely registered out of the corner of his eye that the woman stood up from the bed, came toward him, and passed by to leave the room. The scent of jasmine and black tea went with her. The clacking of her shoes echoed the click of the door closing.

John felt as all of his energy seemed to drain out of him. He didn't understand how his body expected him to formulate so much as one more word in this condition. He slowly approached the bed. The contradictory needs for both closeness and distance made him wrap his fingers around the cool metal of the frame at the foot of the bed. Something to hold on to. In order not to lose even more of his unsteady balance.

When he finally managed to lift the monstrous weight pressing down on his neck and raise his head, he looked straight into Greg's sorrowful eyes. His lips pressed together as if he wanted to prevent the words behind them from falling out of his mouth at any cost, he looked mournfully at John.

"So... your wife...?" John asked hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "Your ex-wife," he amended, biting the inside of his cheek until that pain almost drowned out the other one.

"The Yard informed her. She came straightaway," Greg explained, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"When was she here the first time?"

"About... two weeks ago, I think... She was really worried."

John nodded once. "I... get that," he admitted, even if he didn't know why. Everyone who knew Greg had been worried about him. Even Sherlock had done everything he could in the end to find the Inspector.

"And the two of you..." John bit down on his lips only to release them immediately and take a deep breath. "You're back together?" he finally asked, his eyes boring into Greg's. He found it incredibly difficult to meet the other man's gaze so directly, but he needed not only to hear the answer, but to see it in his face.

"I don't know," Greg said. The hand without an IV port lifted up as if he wanted to pluck the words out of the air, only to drop back down onto the bed at his side without completing its task. "I wish..." He cut himself off, closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his fingers.

John waited patiently, unwilling to accept the incomplete response.

"I'm sorry, John..." he said eventually, then fell silent.

The metal under John's palms burned now that it had absorbed his body heat. He didn't know what to reply to those words. Everything seemed so meaningless all of a sudden. All the insane ideas and emotions that had made life hard for him for so long, which he'd only tentatively tried to name. Apparently they hadn't found their echo. At least not one that was strong enough. That was _sufficient_.

What should he do? What should he change? He knew all too well that he could hardly influence another person's feelings. Just then, he wasn't sure whether he even wanted to.

"Okay," he said eventually, after the air between them had stood still long enough. "I'm happy for you." A half-hearted smile tugged painfully at the corners of his mouth. The irritation on the other man's face hurt almost more than the words that had been directed at him a moment ago. Greg hadn't seriously expected that John would fight for something he'd never had? Against a connection that had existed for years? Whose reigniting Greg had never even mentioned to John? Why begin a game he'd already lost?

He pursed his lips and looked down at his hands; they were wrapped around the bar so hard that his knuckles protruded, white. As if his body were refusing to let go. _Don't be so selfish_ , he scolded himself and forced his hands to relax and hang uselessly at his sides.

There was a hesitant knock at the door, and then Elisabeth came in. She was carrying three cardboard cups with plastic lids stacked on top of each other, and made an apologetic face.

"Tea?" she offered. Her voice was soft and friendly. Kind. Cutting off any animosity at the knees.

"Thanks, but I can't stay," John answered and raised his hands defensively. "See you around," he added hastily and lurched for the door.

"John?"

He stopped short and turned around, the door handle already in his hand. The other two were watching him. Greg's lips formed a couple of silent words. His expression conveyed regret, almost grief. John swallowed hard then pulled the door shut behind him.

As soon as he was in the corridor, he took several cleansing breaths to rein in the trembling threatening his limbs. Sherlock stood no more than three metres away, leaning against the wall and looking over at him. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before John clenched his hands into fists and walked down the hall with long, decisive strides. He heard Sherlock following him.

The soundless words echoed in his mind, drilling into his nerve endings and utterly refusing to fit into the puzzle that his life had become.

_I'm sorry._

 

*****

 

John's eyes burned from overuse. He set the medical journal aside, rubbed his eyes, and suppressed a yawn. It was almost three in the morning, but he didn't feel a need to sleep. Not after he'd already tried twice and failed. No sooner did he turn off the light than his thoughts seemed to develop a life of their own and wanted to rehash every single detail about the last few weeks. When he'd finally given up on getting any sleep, he'd grabbed one of his medical journals and read it from cover to cover. Three times.

He couldn't always have said what was in the articles, but at least the act of reading blocked out all of the deliberations which always led into the same dead end street where the pain lurked. He didn't want to think about motives, didn't want to figure out why Greg had gone back to the woman who had cheated on him several times and eventually left him. Irrational. Sentimental. Maybe Sherlock was right after all, and sentiment was nothing more than a human error. An error that people were hopelessly at the mercy of. John sighed.

He heaved himself up out of his chair and shuffled into the kitchen, put water on to boil, and prepared a teapot as his eyes wandered aimlessly across the overladen kitchen table. Sherlock had apparently set up a new experiment; John wondered what had become of the old one, and whether his flatmate had arrived at the conclusions he'd expected. And why he never talked about what he was doing. _He used to tell me about his discoveries frequently... why doesn't he do that anymore?_ John wondered, sipping at his drink, which was still much too hot. Maybe the results simply weren't worth mentioning, or Sherlock had assumed John had other things to worry about, and therefore wasn't interested.

Whatever the reason, it felt like a loss... as if his friend were shutting him out. _I didn't tell him about Smax either. Maybe he held it against me_ , he considered and set down his cup, crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed. Exhaustion and restlessness were waging a bitter battle inside him. He went back to the living room with his tea, picked a random book from the shelf, and sat down on the couch. His brow wrinkled doubtfully when he read the title and skimmed the blurb on the back cover. _Time of Death: The Degradation Process and Identification._ Wonderful. It looked like stimulating reading.

John must have fallen asleep at some point, although not for too long, because the next time he opened his eyes, it was still dark. The sky was slowly turning a paler blue, though, and the first birds were already chirping. He was startled to find that a woollen blanket had been spread over him. He couldn't recall having covered himself, so it must have been Sherlock. John was surprised his housemate was awake so early, and that he hadn't heard him.

He kicked the cover off, limbs aching and neck stiff, and scooted to the edge of the seat to stretch and yawn. He haphazardly folded the blanket, tossed it over the armrest of the couch, and left the living room in order to climb the stairs to the second floor and get to the bed in his room. Fortunately, his brain seemed tired enough not to torture him with any more bothersome thoughts, so that he could crawl directly under his blanket and fall asleep within a matter of minutes.

 

*****

 

Sunday didn't promise to bring any great changes. John bought himself a coffee and took a long walk in nearby Regent's Park. When he arrived back at 221B, he was just fishing his house keys out of his trouser pocket when he remembered something. He scowled down at the bundle of keys in his hand and remembered that he still had Greg's keys in his bag. He'd have to give them back. Should he bring them directly to Greg at the hospital, or wait until he'd been released? Or should he just drop them in Greg's letterbox?

He eventually decided on the first option. He went up the stairs to his room, got the keys out of his sports bag, and set off for the hospital. The prospect of seeing Greg again gave him conflicting feelings of eager anticipation and despairing anxiety.

As he walked down the corridor at the hospital, he could already tell from a distance that the door to Greg's room was open. A glance inside confirmed that the patient was absent. However, since his personal items were still in the room, it appeared as if he were only gone for a short time. Maybe an examination or an appointment for physical therapy.

John thought about waiting but decided to ask a nurse about the Inspector's whereabouts. He found the same woman who had greeted him and Sherlock on their last visit, but she didn't seem to remember him. John wasn't surprised by that; after all, she'd only had eyes for Sherlock. She readily told him that Greg had a visitor and had gone outside with them to enjoy a bit of sun.

John felt his airways constrict, making it difficult for him to breathe. Elisabeth Lestrade had probably come by again to provide her husband with some company. Should he go after them? He certainly didn't want to just leave the keys in the room, where they might possibly fall into the wrong hands. But handing Greg the keys right in front of that woman's eyes... John didn't know whether Greg had mentioned anything to her about their... _association_ , and despite everything, John had no intention of embarrassing Greg in front of her.

In the end, he decided to go to the garden, trusting that he would find a way to hand over the keys to the other man discreetly. It truly was a lovely day to spend outside. A bright blue, cloudless sky. Sunshine. The sweet scents of various flowers. Still, only a few patients were outside, most of them accompanied by what must be family members or friends.

It didn't take long for John to find Greg. However, the elegant figure at his side wasn't that of his ex-wife, but Sherlock, who – coatless today – had his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets as he walked along the narrow footpath that led to a little fountain. The two men had their backs to John, so that they didn't notice him right away. They sat down on a bench in front of the fountain and conversed quietly with each other.

John's heart was pounding anxiously in his chest as he came closer to the two men, trying very hard not to draw any attention to himself. Of course he knew it was wrong to try and eavesdrop on them. It was probably just about the case, which still hadn't been solved, but the odd premonition that had taken hold of him begged for confirmation. He stopped a couple of metres away from them. He couldn't hear every word, but he could divine the gist when he concentrated on what they were saying.

"… not good. Why should she have changed? You could have been dead. Of course she's worried. But..." Sherlock paused and exhaled audibly before continuing. "I don't want John to be hurt. I can’t stand it."

John's stomach squeezed painfully. So it wasn't about the case, but about him, apparently. He didn't know whether he liked the two of them discussing him and his feelings. Hot anger added itself to the tugging inside him. His hands curled into fists of their own accord.

"It's not so simple..." he heard Greg respond. "I like John – you know that. But Beth... Beth is the love of my _life_. How could I not forgive what she did?" Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang down to his chest, clearly torn and desperate. It gave John an unexpected pang to see him suffer like that. _Love of his life?_ John sucked his lower lip in between his teeth and bit down on it. He liked Greg – a lot – was even _in love_ with him, yes, but the love of his life? The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

No, strictly speaking, John couldn't say he'd ever felt so deeply for another person before, so eternally, so unconditionally. Maybe he should make his presence known after all and assure Greg that it was okay, that he understood and didn't want to get in the way of his happiness, if he thought he'd found it in Elisabeth. Whether she'd stay with him this time and truly make him happy was another question. But John certainly wasn't the kind of person who would try to stand in the way of that chance.

Just when he was about to signal his presence, Sherlock spoke up again.

"Then you know how I feel..."

Greg turned toward Sherlock, a thin smile on his lips. Understanding, resignation, and sadness rolled into one.

"I'm sorry I got in between you," Greg said and looked over at the fountain.

John had had enough. He turned away, went back to the building, and rode the lift up to the second floor. He paced back and forth in the waiting area, all in a muddle, until the lift doors opened and Sherlock and Greg stepped out.

"… photos from Mycroft. I'll bring them by tomorrow," Sherlock was proposing when he noticed John. The two men stopped in surprise and looked over at John, who also stopped his pacing and raised one hand tentatively in greeting, cleared his throat, and went over to them.

"Hi, I..." He reached into his trouser pocket, took out the keys and extended his hand to Greg. "I just wanted to bring you these, and..." He shrugged helplessly, unsure what else to say. Greg held out his hand and blinked, puzzled, when he recognised his keys, but then remembered he'd left them out on the day he'd been abducted. He'd completely forgot in all the confusion.

"Thanks," he said almost tonelessly and tried to catch John's eye. He was met by an encouraging smile that almost covered up the sadness. He returned it and dropped the keys into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. They stood next to each other for a moment without speaking, grasping for meaningless platitudes to fill the silence between them. Finally, Greg spoke.

"I'm being released tomorrow," he announced. "I'll still have a couple of physical therapy appointments, but all in all I'm back in form."

"I'm glad," John said truthfully. His eyes flitted back and forth between the two men. He could virtually feel Sherlock dissecting him and trying to deduce him, but John didn't let it get to him. "So... if there's any way I can help with the case... you know where to find me," he said and bid farewell to the two men.

"Wait," Sherlock called before he could get into the lift. He shook Greg's hand in parting and got into the lift too. Once the doors had closed, he crossed his arms and turned to John. "You eavesdropped on us," Sherlock asserted, his voice teetering between reprimand and amusement.

John turned his head to the side, hiding the touch of red that rose to his cheeks.

"Did not," he insisted stubbornly.

Sherlock snorted, amused. "Fine, you didn't. Just for fun, then, you walked through the wet grass that was just watered this morning, and it's only coincidence that the gravel stuck to your shoes."

"Pure coincidence," John agreed and pursed his lips in order not to grin. He felt like a schoolboy who had been caught cheating. There really was nothing that could be hidden from this man. Why deny it? The lift doors opened, and they stepped out before Sherlock spoke to John again.

"How are you?" he asked with a strange undertone to his voice. John had no idea how to categorise it. Concern? Compassion? Curiosity? He couldn't pin it down. And so he only gave Sherlock a cursory side glance coupled with something not dissimilar to a smile before looking down again, as if he had to watch carefully where his feet hit the pavement. He couldn't have answered that question even if he'd wanted to.

On the way back to Baker Street, they bought some Chinese takeaway. Sherlock insisted. They ate it in the living room in front of the television while a nineties film played that John didn't know and which therefore provided sufficient distraction. When the film had been running for a good forty minutes already, John realised that Sherlock hadn't tried to deduce the ending. His flatmate seemed unusually quiet in general, refraining from any comments whatsoever about plot weaknesses or inconsistencies.

Sherlock disappeared into his room during a break for adverts, and John already suspected he had gone to bed when he reappeared. He'd changed his clothes and was now wearing his anthracite-coloured pyjama bottoms with a black t-shirt. Tousled curls fell across his forehead as if he'd just got out of bed. He reached for the woollen blanket that had been lying across the arm rest since that morning, swung it up over his shoulders, and sat back down cross-legged in the space next to John.

John responded with nothing more than a raised eyebrow before directing his attention back to the screen, where cartoon characters were promoting a new kind of gummy bear. Clearing his throat, John crossed his arms and extended his legs to one side of the coffee table.

"You tried to talk him out of it," he began without taking his eyes off the television. "To reconsider the whole thing... with his ex."

Sherlock didn't say anything, merely drew the blanket more closely around his shoulders.

"Why?" John asked more precisely, this time turning to face him.

Sherlock opened his mouth just a bit, as if he were about to speak, only to close it again and press his lips firmly together. The corner of John's mouth twitched. Sherlock had apparently resolved not to speak to him that evening, not to reveal any of his odd trains of thought or show any of his cards. John huffed in resignation.

"She's probably going to cheat on him again," Sherlock said eventually. The movie was continuing. Two men were arguing loudly. Shots rang out. "His decision appeared illogical to me."

"He loves her," John commented, trying to sound as neutral as possible. He didn't succeed. The frustration undercutting his words hung heavily in the air. "Love is generally illogical."

Sherlock nodded his agreement. "A chemical defect..." he said softly to himself, and John chuckled joylessly. It was pitch dark in the room by now. The moving images were the only thing casting spots of light on their faces, the walls, and the furniture, jumping restlessly around every time the scene changed.

"It's not a defect," John declared. "It's part of our... _survival instinct_."

"Nonsense. Love is unnecessary for reproduction or keeping the human species alive," Sherlock elucidated a little more gruffly than intended.

"No..." John countered, still looking at Sherlock from the side, "not for that. But in order not to fall apart."

Explosives went off, setting several floors of a high-rise on fire. Windows shattered, walls crumbled. People ran screaming through offices, throwing their hands over their heads. John frowned unconsciously, snorted, and finally got up.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said and walked toward the door to go up to his room.

"Don't you want to see the end?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

John paused and turned back toward him, hovering there for a moment motionless before shaking his head. "It always ends the same way..." he replied softly, left the room, and quietly pulled the door shut behind him.

Sherlock watched him go, troubled, unsure whether John had meant the movie or their conversation.

 

+++

tbc

 


	21. Chapter 21

John sat with Mike in the cafeteria of St Bartholomew's Hospital, having a couple of sandwiches and a cup of coffee. He was listening with one ear to Mike's anecdotes about the preceding week and the outing he and his family had gone on. Mike told him about a charming bed and breakfast in Southampton, their hike through South Downs National Park, and the best shepherd's pie they'd eaten in a long time.

John responded to it all with a tired smile. He was actually happy for his friend and colleague, but he couldn't muster much enthusiasm. His mind kept circling back to glum thoughts about Greg, feeding the sense of emptiness inside him. On the one hand, he felt like he was handling the situation pretty well and was genuinely pleased that Greg had found his way back to his wife. On the other hand, the sudden loneliness seemed to be hitting him particularly hard. He couldn't for the life of him remember the last time he'd entertained thoughts of anything _more_ significant going on between himself and another person. However that was defined.

He thought of Sarah Sawyer, whom he'd met just a few months after moving onto Baker Street. He'd had something of a vague hope back then regarding a steady relationship. Even if the notion hadn't lasted long. He was glad Sarah had turned out to be a good friend. They hadn't spoken in several weeks now, much less seen each other. The last time they'd talked about John's defensiveness regarding his sexuality. And look at everything that had happened since then... John wrapped his hands around the warm cardboard cup and shook his head.

"I see your mind's miles away, John," Mike noted without sounding reproachful, and gave him a friendly smile. John looked up and apologised for his inattentiveness. "It's all right. I can understand that my married life doesn't interest you much. When was the last time you had a date anyway?" he asked, his eyebrows rising meaningfully.

"Erm," was all John said. Images flooded his mind. Images of things he'd rather not think about at the moment. Memories of passionate kisses, the sensation of warm skin on his, hands caressing him, pulling him close to another body... He tossed them aside with a shake of his head and curled his lips. "It's been a while..." he acknowledged. In reality, it seemed like an eternity. Another lifetime.

A date. _Date?_ He heard the word coming from Sherlock's mouth. Imagining himself going on a date was almost absurd. He only hoped Mike didn't come up with some idiotic idea of wanting to set him up with someone. After all, John could hardly explain to him that he'd just gone through something like a breakup. Although in order to break up, they would have had to be together in the first place. Who determined the status of a relationship? Was it necessary to have it written in black and white somewhere in order for it to become a fact? John didn't know.

When the two of them were done with their lunch, they each went their separate ways. John went back to his consultation room, picked up the file on the top of the stack, and called in the next patient. He was occupied with many other patients in the course of the afternoon, which thankfully distracted him from his own thoughts. They didn't resume their wanderings along the pathways of his mind until he left the clinic that evening.

As usual, he took the Circle Line from Barbican to Baker Street and walked the final metres to 221B. When he entered the living room, he heard water running from the shower in Sherlock's bathroom. He laid his jacket over the arm rest of the couch, stretched, and yawned, tired after the long day. His eye landed on a series of photographs that filled nearly every free centimetre of the desk, even covering his laptop. He let his gaze wander randomly across the enlarged images in order to get a quick overview, then picked one of them up to examine it more closely.

Most of them were of the blond man with the initials S.M. – whom they had observed on the plaza in front of One Canada Square – speaking to various people. A couple of the pictures were of Jeff, but there were also pictures of the two chameleon victims, the police from the drugs squad who had been members of _Smax_ , and two other people John thought he might have seen at the gym but didn't know their names. He didn't recognise any of the other people in the pictures, but assumed they probably also had something to do with the drug smuggling.

This man had obviously assembled a rather large team of dealers. Since the organisation he was part of seemed to be in charge of several of the hideouts, a significant portion of London's drug dealings probably ran under their patronage by now. John looked at the picture in his hand more closely. It was a blurry close-up of S.M. His pale eyes – it wasn't clear whether they were blue, grey, or green – were sunk in deep sockets within an angular face. His jaw appeared stiff, as if he always kept his teeth pressed firmly together. Some faint stubble was visible.

John picked up another picture that showed the man's face from another angle. There, he could make out a vertical line that ran from the man's left temple down to his jaw. It was probably a scar. He could see more, smaller scars on some of the sharper images, although in comparison they were much less remarkable. As if with a sudden flash of sympathetic pain, John's left shoulder started to tingle.

He put both pictures back on the table, grasped the spot where the scar tissue pulled across his skin, and rubbed it absentmindedly. Where did a man get scars like that?

"Afghanistan," Sherlock said from behind him, and John turned around, startled.

He hadn't heard his flatmate turn off the shower or come into the room. Sherlock was wearing anthracite-coloured trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt, revealing more skin than it covered. He stepped over to the table beside John, barefoot, all the while rubbing his hair dry with a towel in one hand. John cleared his throat and returned his attention to the photographs.

"Mycroft turned the pictures over to me. Some of them were taken months ago. MI6 is obviously on the trail of this organisation – if you can call it that." He snorted disdainfully. "They've been unsuccessful so far."

"What else do they know about this man?" John asked, holding the close-up out to Sherlock.

Rather than taking it, Sherlock walked around the desk, picked up a brown A4-sized envelope, and took out a piece of paper, which he handed to John without saying a word. It only took a few seconds before John's eyes widened in surprise.

"Oh... oh, _fuck_... how the hell...?" he asked, not sure what this all meant.

"Have you ever met him?" Sherlock gave John an assessing look.

John continued to stare at the fact sheet in his hand. In the upper right corner was a photograph of the blond man; it must have been several years old. His hair was shorter and darker, his facial features softer despite the angular structure of his head. And he didn't have any scars at all. He was wearing a dark blue beret and a uniform that identified him as a colonel.

"Sebastian Moran..." John read sotto voce, once more scanning the facts of his career. He'd served in Afghanistan at the same time as John, although at another base. Still, John was almost positive they'd met at least once. He just couldn't remember when and where exactly.

Sherlock passed John a second page with inofficial information about the man's background. According to the report, Moran had been involved in an incident in which several officers had been killed. Nothing was able to be proven to implicate him, but he'd been encouraged to retire. After his resignation from the army, he'd gone off the radar. Several months later was the first time a connection between him and the organisation had been made. Moran, who was apparently an excellent marksman, had gunned down a Russian gangster. John vaguely remembered the news reports from that episode.

The official story had been that the shooter was never caught. However, Mycroft's report said that the weapon had been found at the scene. An air rifle, custom made by a German manufacturer, possessing enormous penetration power and registered to Moran. Apparently intentionally left behind, it had been found on a window sill on the top floor of the house across from the scene of the crime. It looked a little bit as if he'd closed the door on his old life with one final shot from the weapon which had been custom made for him. _Perhaps some kind of initiation ritual for the organisation_ , John mused.

At any rate, he'd made it onto the list of the most dangerous men in Great Britain and MI6 had been after him ever since.

"We did meet, but I don't remember it very well. I don't know when or where... sorry," John said, giving Sherlock an apologetic look.

Sherlock made a sound confirming he'd heard, and at least he didn't complain about John's poor memory.

"It's not clear yet what position Moran holds within the organisation. On the one hand, he seems to act as a courier fairly frequently, but on the other hand he seems to have virtually sole control over the drug deals. At least there have been no appearances by other agents other than the dealers," Sherlock explained as his eyes flitted over the photographs, registering and cataloguing every detail.

"Did you show Greg the pictures yet?" John inquired, trying not to sound too curious. The fact that Greg and Sherlock were working on this case together gave John a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach. He kicked himself mentally for being an idiot about it, and tried to suppress it, but he couldn't quite manage. He secretly wondered whether the two of them ever discussed the 'John problem', or whether they just ignored it.

"No, it didn't work out today. After speaking to Mycroft, I was so agitated that..." Sherlock paused as if he'd suddenly forgot what he wanted to say.

"That...?" John prompted him, but Sherlock just shook his head and turned away. It wasn't unusual for Mycroft Holmes to get his little brother so worked up that he let his anger out randomly on others. Had he wanted to protect Greg? Since when was Sherlock considerate of other people's feelings?

"He won't be back at the Yard this week as far as I know. I'll bring them by his house tomorrow," Sherlock said and went into the kitchen, thus ending the conversation.

John followed him, watching as Sherlock leaned over the kitchen table to examine his Petri dishes. He still hadn't buttoned up his shirt. The damp towel was now draped around his neck. John leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms and watching his flatmate closely.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked as casually as possible.

Sherlock straightened, leaning the index fingers and thumbs of both hands on the table top, and looked over at John. He bit the inside of his lips for a moment before speaking. "I wanted..." He cleared his throat. "I wondered if we shouldn't get something to eat."

John, who assumed the refrigerator was little more than a wasteland, shrugged. "Okay," he said simply. "Just let me know when you're ready." He walked back into the living room with demonstrative indifference, sat down on the couch, and crossed his legs. Since his jacket was already there and he hadn't taken his shoes off, he was able to watch with some amusement as Sherlock rushed back into the bathroom to finish drying his hair and then put on a dark blue suit jacket. When he noticed the flurry Sherlock was in, John couldn't prevent a smirk from appearing on his lips.

 

*****

 

As so often when they went out together, they took a taxi. Sherlock gave the driver an address and turned to John, somewhat hesitant.

"French?" he asked, barely concealing the uncertainty in his voice.

John bit the inside of his cheek in order not to burst out laughing. It was at the expense of a large amount of self-control that he didn't make any stupid jokes which would have been guaranteed to backfire. Instead, he lifted his shoulders indifferently and gave him a vague smile.

"Fish and chips would have been fine too!"

Sherlock thought hard for a moment, probably running down the list of restaurants in his memory, looking for an appropriate place. Finally, he leaned forward toward the driver and gave him a different address. The taxi stopped a few minutes later and they paid and got out.

The restaurant had a very modern air to it. Along with rather rustic stone walls, there were several shelves with a diverse array of wine bottles on one side and an open kitchen on the other. Round tables with white tablecloths had been arranged in the middle of the oblong space, each surrounded by four chairs upholstered in red velvet.

The two men were greeted at the door by a woman in an elegant, slim-fitting suit who inquired after their reservation. John did a double-take when Sherlock gave his last name, causing her to cry out in surprise.

"Then you'll want to be seated on the roof, no doubt, Mr Holmes? You'll have a marvellous view from up there!" she raved, leading the two men up a set of stairs. John couldn't begin to imagine when Sherlock was supposed to have made the reservation.

The rooftop terrace was shielded from the elements by a weather-proof pergola. Grapevines wrapped around the posts, and small lamps were mounted at irregular intervals, bathing the tables in soft light. Together with the dark wood furniture, the whole arrangement was reminiscent of a starry sky.

John mouthed a silent 'Wow!' and followed Sherlock and the hostess to the only empty table on the outside edge of the terrace. John slid into the corner bench, and Sherlock sat to his right so they both had a fantastic view of the city. They were given menus and two glasses of sparkling water, and then the woman withdrew so they could review the selection in peace.

"When did you make the reservation?" John asked, staring at Sherlock with undisguised bafflement.

Sherlock merely smiled thinly, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands. "There's more than one Holmes, as you well know, and my dear brother has a standing reservation at several restaurants in case he needs to entertain a guest."

Sherlock winked, and John laughed helplessly. Of course. Mycroft... who else? In contrast to the civil servant, Sherlock wouldn't be accorded a table just like that without a reservation, since this restaurant was obviously very popular.

 _This is looking more and more like a date, damn it!_ John thought to himself, gnawing at his lip in a sudden burst of helplessness. He'd honestly assumed they were going out for a bite as friends, just like they'd done dozens of times before. Sort of for old time's sake. But he was starting to get the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock viewed this entire endeavour in quite a different light than he did.

"Sher--"

"Good evening, gentlemen. What may I bring you?" The waiter had just bustled over to their table, waving some kind of tablet computer in the air with which he intended to take their order.

"I'll have the turbot with spring vegetables, please," Sherlock said without even having glanced at the menu.

John, still irritated by the situation, ordered the same thing with the addition of spicy potato wedges. Once the waiter had moved away again, John ran both hands down his cheeks before folding them in front of his face and sighing softly.

"Erm, Sherlock... you... know this isn't a date, right?" he asked, closely observing his friend's reaction.

He was met by a studious gaze which pinned him, virtually drilling through him. Finally, Sherlock reached for his glass and took a large sip before answering.

"Why not?"

 _Why not?!_ John expelled the air from his lungs, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest. He sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth unhappily and tried to find the right words. Might it be that Sherlock truly didn't understand? Given everything he knew about his flatmate, it was entirely within the realm of possibility...

"Do you think that because _things_ with Greg are... over... that … what...? That it's your turn now?" John's tone of voice had done an about-face of 180 degrees within just those few words. From friendly curiosity to furious incredulity. It was only due to the fact that they weren't alone that he moderated his volume to the extent that the guests at the next table wouldn't hear any of their conversation. If nothing else, John wanted to avoid drawing any unpleasant attention while they discussed this topic. Nonetheless, affront and anger bubbled up inside him. It simply wasn't possible that Sherlock didn't understand how ridiculous the idea was. He sighed and tried to make eye contact with his friend, who truly did look clueless. John's brow crumpled into a scowl of its own accord.

"Didn't you just tell me recently that our friendship's important to you?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound as free from reproach as possible.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He stared at a spot on the table and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his index finger.

"I don't understand, John," he said softly after a while. "Isn't friendship a kind of love too? How can the two be exclusive of each other?" The question seemed to be entirely earnest, John was baffled to find. The natures of friendship and love were two completely different things. Of course John loved his friends to a certain extent, and he'd always thought of his romantic partners as friends, but... there was still a difference.

"You said it yourself: it's a _kind_ of love. Not the same as between a man and a wo-- between two lovers." John cleared his throat, acutely embarrassed. "It's different because..." He moistened his lips with his tongue, trying to find the right words. "I don't know... maybe because there isn't any... any passion between friends?" he asked, hoping to receive a confirmation of his statement. Even to his own ears, it sounded like a lame excuse. He reached for his water glass as if hoping to find assistance there, tossing back half of its contents into his dry throat. He then set it down again and curled his hands into fists on the table top. He was acutely aware of the sensation of Sherlock's eyes on him, as if he were trying to look straight through John.

"So..." Sherlock said softly, reaching for John's hand where it lay on the table. He very casually turned it over, and John's tension leeched out of him. He slowly opened his fist so that Sherlock's hand could slide into his, palm on palm. John's breath caught. The heat radiating from Sherlock's hand disquieted him. He watched as if in a trance as the tips of Sherlock's fingers caressed the heel of his hand, sliding underneath the edge of his sleeve. "Does that mean you don't feel anything when I touch you?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely more than a low vibration on John's eardrums.

"Don't..." John whispered, his body feeling as if it were going completely haywire.

"Why?"

John looked up, parted his lips to say something, but couldn't imbue the syllables hovering on his tongue with any kind of meaning. The strange combination of colours in Sherlock's irises and the flip-flopping from hot to cold coursing through his body removed him a little from reality. He didn't know where the feeling was coming from or what to do with it, what it meant or why his skin was tingling so much where Sherlock was touching him.

"The food's coming," he croaked hoarsely, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock's with a jerk in order to hide it under the table. There was a roaring in his ears, and it took him a moment to realise it wasn't an approaching thunderstorm but rather his own heartbeat incessantly echoing inside him.

The waiter set the plates on the table with a practised flourish and wished the two gentlemen "Bon appetit." They ate silently, although an impartial observer would have more accurately called it poking at their food. After they'd played that game for a while, Sherlock gestured to the waiter to request the bill. The latter asked with some concern whether the food had been all right.

"Oh yes, it was excellent," Sherlock said with a charming smile which disappeared immediately as soon as the waiter moved away from their table.

After they'd paid, they left the restaurant and got into another taxi for the ride back to Baker Street. John looked out the window to distract himself from the oppressive silence between them. When they finally arrived home, Sherlock opened the door and went inside the building. He turned to John, who pushed the door shut until the latch clicked.

"You haven't answered my question," Sherlock noted, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

John hesitated a moment, trying to recall the question Sherlock was referring to. _Does that mean you don't feel anything when I touch you?_ John's tongue flicked across his dry lips as if it had a mind of its own. When John didn't react further, Sherlock stepped in closer to him. John took a step back in alarm and bumped into the door. Sherlock didn't stop until the tips of their noses were only a few centimetres apart. He had one hand pressed against the door behind John's back and the other thrust into the pocket of his suit jacket.

Without touching his housemate, he whispered, "So it doesn't affect you in the slightest when I'm close to you?" A shameless smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth when he saw John swallow hard and make a vain attempt to hide what was obvious to Sherlock. John's body was reacting more than willingly, but his head was stopping him, trying to put the brakes on in order not to threaten his self-image.

"I took your pulse..." The statement was made with a dose of gentle teasing, but it struck precisely the wrong nerve with John. He felt exposed. Sherlock and his big talk – it was all nothing but show to draw him out! Whatever Sherlock hoped to achieve with his theatrics, he was going to fail miserably! Huffing angrily, John shoved Sherlock in the shoulder to move him out of the way.

"Leave me be," he growled and was about to stomp past his housemate when Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist and shoulder and pressed John back against the wall with more force than he'd originally intended, pinning him with his lower arm. John was shaken by a dull thud, and he inhaled sharply, taken by surprise.

"I can't," Sherlock breathed against John's lips before they met his. They pressed down on John's mouth, warm and pliant. Breath caught, hearts forgot their duty, nerve endings ignited.

John reacted instinctively, half pulling and half shoving as he scrabbled to dig the fingers of his free hand into Sherlock's sleeve.

And returned the kiss.

 

+++

 

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: Inspiration for the Restaurant: http://www.theboundary.co.uk/rooftop/


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John's heart was beating so loud and hard against his ribs that he was afraid Mrs Hudson would come out of her flat any second to complain about the noise. The last bit of common sense he still possessed tried to convince him of the impossibility of such a scenario, but he ruthlessly ignored it. He was too mesmerised by the feeling of the plump lips against his, the teeth gently digging into his soft flesh, and the tongue caressing his with its velvety roughness.

Sherlock's lower arm was still pressed against his chest, crowding him up against the door of 221B. John knew he was breathing, but there didn't seem to be any oxygen getting into his lungs. Every breath turned into a shudder that flashed through his body like an electric shock, making him shiver. Heat and cold traded off, forming frost on his lips that promptly melted and left a damp, tingling film on his skin.

Sherlock's taste in John's mouth, his scent in John's nose, the heat radiating from his body... it all crashed over John at once, making him unable to perceive anything else. It was a little bit like drowning. Almost exactly as frightening and overwhelming. And yet completely different. The warring urges to pull the other body closer or push it away made John surrender mindlessly to the situation.

Sherlock's breath burned hot on his reddened lips when he pulled back a couple of centimetres to suck in air. Forehead to forehead, eyes closed, struggling to maintain composure. Then Sherlock pushed away from the wall, and the enchantment seemed to suddenly break. He put distance between them, shoving his hands into his pockets. His veiled gaze cleared like cloud cover breaking after a storm, revealing blue sky.

"I have to agree with you..." he said in a thick voice and, clearing his throat: " _Nothing_." Of course Sherlock was referring to John's statement that there was no passion between friends – between the two of them. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly before he turned around and casually ascended the stairs to the first floor.

John watched him go, flabbergasted. He felt as if the floor had been yanked out from underneath his feet. He struggled to undo the knot in his chest and get his breathing under control again. At the same time, fury rose inside him. _What does he think he's doing?!_

He could still feel the echo of Sherlock's lips on his. His whole body was buzzing, and he couldn't say whether it was with anger or... arousal. Disgruntled, he wiped his hands across his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and finally stepped away from the door to go upstairs too. Rather than making a pit stop in the living room or kitchen, though, he went straight up to his room on the second floor and noisily shut the door behind him.

He sat down on his bed without turning on the light, propped his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. He sighed wearily and tried in vain to call his racing thoughts to order. What were Sherlock's intentions with all of this? First that... that _date_ – there was no other word for it – then taking John's pulse while flirting with him, and now that... incredible kiss.

_I have to agree with you – nothing!_

John bit his lips unconsciously when Sherlock's words reverberated in his mind. That hadn't been nothing... it hadn't been nothing at all… John's heart was still beating one notch too fast and a little too hard. Why in the world had he responded to the kiss instead of pushing his friend away? It all felt as if he'd done something horribly forbidden.

He thought of Greg. Thought of Sherlock's irritated expression when John had accused him of assuming it was his turn next. John chuckled humourlessly. He thought of Elisabeth and the way she'd leaned over Greg and kissed him. The way Greg had returned the kiss. The way he – John – had returned Sherlock's kiss. It was all so bloody twisted... He ruffled his hair, making an irate sound, and clenched his jaws together so hard it hurt.

Why couldn't everything simply be like before? Before the kiss, before the affair with Greg, best of all before the day he'd set foot in _Smax_ the first time. Back when his life had been running along halfway normally. With an eccentric, asexual flatmate and mysterious cases that had added a bit of spice to his daily grind. With no-strings dates – dates with women – that had at least given off the impression that he led a completely normal life.

_Normal... what's normal anyway?!_

John punched his pillow angrily. Once, twice. The voice in his head didn't want to leave him in peace. It kept questioning his desires for normality, confusing him with all the options that not being normal offered. Wasn't it true that normal was much less common than not normal? Or did that depend solely upon one's own perspective?

Sighing, John dropped down onto his back, his arms extended on either side of him. He stared at the dark ceiling of the room and loudly expelled the air from his lungs until his abdominal muscles started to cramp up, then closed his eyes.

_What if..._

Sherlock's statement was obviously a farce. He'd wanted to show John that there could well be passion between them if John allowed it. But did he want it? After everything that had happened in the past few weeks, did he want to open himself up to being hurt? And especially by Sherlock?

Sherlock, who not only could read him like an open book, but probably knew him better than anyone else. Sherlock, to whom emotions sometimes seemed to be so foreign, yet who was surprisingly capable of profound feelings. Sherlock, who believed sentiment to be a chemical defect, yet hoarded insignificant objects merely because they had something to do with John.

John rolled onto his stomach, interlocked his hands behind his neck, and growled irritably.

_You'd never be a match for him._

_He'd take you apart piece by piece._

_And you'd let him._

Victor's words clawed their way to the surface of John's memory. He'd obviously wanted not only to intimidate John, but also to make him curious. And he had. Victor had known Sherlock so long and had never managed to completely end things between them, even though whatever it was that connected the two of them didn't seem to be substantial enough to bond them for the long term. Or was it? Who was he to judge?

After all, they'd found each other again after all these years. Had clearly picked up again with their physical relationship where they'd left off. Would it be like that in future too? Would Sherlock even miss Victor sooner or later? Would he feel a yearning for him? Would John ever be enough for Sherlock if... in the event... Or would Victor forever hang over them like a sword of Damocles and spell the inevitable end to their relationship, their friendship?

The real problem was that John didn't want to lose his friend. His best friend. But wasn't it already too late for that? Everything that had happened between them couldn't be taken back... It had already developed into something else. Into something that was more than just friendship. Into something that couldn't be defined yet. It was impossible to turn back the clock.

John sighed.

 

*****

 

When John shuffled into the kitchen the next morning following a sleepless night, Sherlock was already sitting at the breakfast table reading the newspaper. Still groggy, John realised that there were two cups and a steaming pot of tea standing on the table. He sat down and poured himself some, rubbing his tired eyes and suppressing a yawn.

"You're up early," he said in a rough voice. He would have liked to drink his tea right away, but it was still too hot.

"Mm-hm," was all Sherlock said as he flipped to the next page without looking at his flatmate.

John stared at the newspaper in a vain attempt to see through it and get a glimpse of the other man. He grumpily fished a biscuit from the plate that lay on the table between them. Mrs Hudson had left them a whole tin full of freshly baked biscuits in the kitchen several days ago, and its contents were steadily being decimated. He dunked the biscuit into his hot tea and stuffed a piece into his mouth. The softened pastry melted sweetly on his tongue, combining with the spiciness of the ginger that had been mixed into the biscuits.

John ran his fingers across the grain of the table and up the smooth outer surface of the teacup. The heat radiating from it was a pleasant contrast to the strange emptiness he felt at the moment. He rested his face on one hand glumly, covering his mouth with his palm and exhaling a soft sigh. Everything felt like a loss, and the misleading lightness he fancied he felt weighed heavily on his mind.

He heard more than saw Sherlock fold down the newspaper and look him over. John turned his head a bit so that his chin rested on his palm and made eye contact. In the dim morning light, Sherlock's eyes appeared darker than usual. Sherlock had put him under direct scrutiny countless times before, but this time seemed different. John's throat was suddenly very dry.

He reached for the handle of the teacup, lifted it to his lips, and gulped down the much too hot liquid. Then he put the cup back down on the saucer a little too loudly and stood up to go back to his room and get ready for work. He deliberately ignored the rustling of the newspaper as it was folded and laid aside.

 

*****

 

It was heaving in the department of general medicine at St. Barthlomew's Hospital that Tuesday. Exasperated, John plucked a patient file from the top of the pile and called the next patient into his consulting room. After he'd listened to Mr Hall's lungs and referred him to Radiology, he went into the hospital staff break room for a moment to get a tea from the vending machine there. When he returned, his assistant reminded him that his next patient was already sitting in the consulting room.

John nodded to her although he wasn't pleased that she'd left someone alone and unattended with all of his documents. He'd have to speak to her later so that such misconduct didn't become a habit. With his cup in his hand, he re-entered the room, closed the door behind him, and greeted the patient, who sat in front of his desk with his back to John. He quickly went to his chair, set the tea down on the desk, and reached for the file in order to find the patient's name.

"Well, Mr... er... Smith, what can I do for you?" John was only listening with one ear, for just then his mobile phone emitted an alert. His fingers casually brushed the screen so he could read the message.

_On my way to Lestrade. Come along if possible. If not possible, come anyway. – SH_

John sighed, aggravated. It wasn't Sherlock's style to formulate a request; no, it was generally an order that relegated anyone else's work to the background, rendering it meaningless. At the same time, John couldn't really be angry, since he was extremely interested to know what Greg would say about the photographs of Moran. Therefore, he excused himself briefly from his patient and went out to his assistant, explaining that he was urgently needed elsewhere and that she should inform one of the other doctors so that she could take over for him.

He apologised once more to the man in the consulting room, asked him to have a seat in the waiting room again as an emergency had come up, tossed his doctor's coat onto his chair, and left the surgery as quick as the wind. In order to save time, he took a cab, composing a short reply to Sherlock on the way and telling him that he was going straight to Greg's and would meet him there.

When the cab pulled up in front of the block of flats where Greg lived, Sherlock was already standing outside. He watched John get out of the car, holding the brown envelope containing the photos in one hand and the other in the pocket of his suit jacket.

"You could have told me this morning that you were coming to Greg's, then I could have organised things better," John complained in lieu of a greeting, glaring at him balefully.

Sherlock shrugged his indifference. "I didn't know when the meeting would be," he replied lightly and went on ahead, going up the few steps to the entrance and pressing the button next to _G. Lestrade's_ name. The door opened with a buzz a few seconds later, and the two men entered.

Greg received them at the door to his flat and invited them in. There were still obvious marks from his abduction on his face, and the shadows of the contusions were also visible on his arms.

A strange feeling came over John as he entered the flat. On the one hand, it was already so familiar to him that he almost felt right at home; on the other hand, the impression was so misleading that he felt utterly out of place. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to act toward Greg. It was as if he were missing his stage directions. Unsettled, he looked back and forth between the other two men.

"Here are the pictures," Sherlock said, handing the Detective Inspector the brown envelope. "The material's from MI6..."  
Greg nodded and withdrew the sheaf of papers so he could spread them out on his coffee table. He sat down and sighed, covering his mouth with his hands. It was obvious that he recognised the man, and that extremely unpleasant memories were surfacing. John's stomach clenched at the sight of the faint shudder that travelled through Greg's body. He would have loved to do something to take the other man's pain away.

"Yeah..." Greg rasped after a while, "this guy was there. I saw him a couple of times." He pointed to Moran, then looked up at Sherlock and John, appearing eerily pale and lost. "But he wasn't the one who... punched and kicked me. Just the opposite, he gave me water and every time the other guy... had enough, he checked how I was doing." Greg cleared his throat painfully, averted his eyes, and blew the air out of his lungs in order to collect himself a bit.

"What did the other man look like? Is he visible in one of the other photographs?" Sherlock asked, his voice tense.

Greg went through all of the pictures, examining them thoroughly so as not to miss a single detail, but eventually shook his head.

"No, he isn't pictured anywhere..."

Sherlock half-heartedly suppressed a groan of frustration.

"Can you describe him?" John asked, wanting to be useful in some way.

Greg raised his head and looked directly at John for the first time. Regret was written all over his face. Feelings of guilt that made John feel even less comfortable with himself. As if to protect himself, he crossed his arms and looked off to the side, clearing his throat discreetly. He was all too aware of the fact that Sherlock must be taking note of every single little detail.

"He was shorter than this blond bloke here, but he... I don't know, he had a much different air about him. Whenever he entered the room, it was like a vacuum opened up. He... he had... this maniacal expression in his eyes. And that smile... he was always smiling," Greg said, his voice becoming softer and softer. "I was sure I wasn't going to get out of there alive..."

"Shorter than Moran then. What else?" Sherlock asked bluntly, as he was starting to lose patience over the vague descriptions. The impression the perpetrators had made on the victim didn't help him any.

Greg pressed his lips together, trying to compose himself before continuing.

"Yeah... shorter... black hair, dark brown eyes... Irish accent..." he managed to say. He was disquieted to see Sherlock stiffen and a weirdly haunted expression appear on John's face. The two of them exchanged a quick glance as if seeking confirmation from each other.

"Do you think... he..." John stammered softly.

"I don't know. It's possible..." Sherlock replied. He folded his hands before his face, pressed his fingertips against his lips, and paced around the room excitedly. His far-off gaze said that he was trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in his head.

"What? What are you two talking about?" Greg demanded to know, straightening up.

Seeking help, John looked to Sherlock, but he had no intention of pausing in his perambulation or responding to the question.

"We might have run across him before," John eventually explained. "The bomber who sent Sherlock the pink phone..." he added hesitantly.

Greg's eyes widened. "The one who disappeared without a trace after Sherlock cleared up the thing with the counterfeit painting?! Why's he showing up again months later? And why did he want the information from me, of all people?" he asked, upset.

John did a double take. "What information?"

Greg evaded John's inquisitive eyes. "You didn't tell him?" he asked, directing the question at Sherlock.

Sherlock finally stopped moving and scrutinised the two men thoroughly, as if he needed to first deduce the situation because he hadn't been following the conversation.

"Oh," he said then, "no, I didn't."

With a mixture of bafflement and anger, John frowned and opened his mouth to make a biting reply, only to swallow it back down and gesture to Sherlock, prompting him to go on. But Sherlock turned away and clasped his hands behind his back. Confused, John's eyes flitted over to Greg.

"He... asked me a bunch of questions about... you," Greg finally got out.

It felt as if the floor had opened up beneath John and swallowed him. His pulse froze as if there were no blood left flowing through his veins. He inevitably gasped for air when the memory of the swimming pool flashed through his mind. Of how Jim from IT had turned out to be the mad bomber whose trail they had been on. Of how he'd been kidnapped and had explosives attached to his body. Of how James Moriarty had prompted him with words through an earpiece, for John to repeat to Sherlock. Like all the previous victims.

A cold shiver ran down John's back at the memory of the look of shock Sherlock had directed at him at the pool. How doubts about their friendship had clouded his gaze for a moment. How fear and anger had taken such horrible hold of his insides. John exhaled the air from his lungs shakily.

"I didn't tell him anything..." Greg added in a small voice.

John swallowed hard when he realised that the Detective Inspector might have been held so long because he hadn't been willing to reveal any information about him – about John.

"What did he want to know?" John asked, his voice thick.

Greg hesitated a moment before answering. "All kinds of personal stuff... about your work, your time in the military, your family... about your work with Sherlock and the Yard... once in a while totally petty things like your favourite colour... Lots of things I don't even know. I assume he was just trying to confuse me... I have no idea."

Not sure how much longer his legs would hold him up, John stepped around the coffee table and sat down on the couch. He buried his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes, and sighed heavily. What did it all mean? If it was really Moriarty who had planned the whole thing, why did he want information about John specifically? Why hadn't he kidnapped John directly? With that thought, an unpleasant tingling sensation ran across John's scalp and down his back like a swarm of insects.

Silence spread amongst the three men. Chagrined, John chewed on his bottom lip and stared at the photographs laid out on the table.

"A drug ring headed up by Sebastian Moran, who's responsible for the deaths of several of his dealers and dozens of addicts. All under the protection of this mysterious organisation overseen by an equally mysterious man, who's gathering information about me for some ominous reason or other, and therefore kidnaps my... friends," John recounted grimly.

"Sherlock..." John's gaze clung to his housemate's back. "You do realise that – if it turns out to be Moriarty – he might not actually be after me?"

"We don't know that..." Sherlock replied, turning to face the other two men. His eyes rested on John. Two steps brought him alongside the coffee table, where he rapidly gathered up the photographs and stuffed them back into the brown envelope. "We should leave."

John nodded and stood up. Greg walked them to the door and made them promise to let him know if they got any new information. In the taxi on the way back to Baker Street, John regarded Sherlock thoughtfully. He could see the dogged determination in him, the uncertainty about whether they were really dealing with Moriarty, and what that would mean for them. How far had they already walked into the spider's web?

 

*****

 

Once they were home, John made a pot of tea. Exhaustion hung over him, adding its weight to his mind. When he fetched the milk from the refrigerator, he noticed two plates covered in plastic film, each with a slice of roast, potatoes, and vegetables. There was a note stuck to the cling wrap that said 'A bite for my boys'. Mrs Hudson had probably cooked too much again (John was convinced she did it intentionally), but hadn't found either John or Sherlock at home when she brought the food up.

"Sherlock, are you hungry? Mrs Hudson put something..." John fell silent when his flatmate came into the kitchen wearing nothing more than his trousers and giving him an inquisitive look. "…in the refrigerator for us to eat." He cleared his throat and looked down at the two plates in his hand, embarrassed.

Sherlock closed the distance between them with a few steps and took one of the plates from John to put it in the microwave. He closed the door of the appliance, turned it on, and leaned back against the cupboard, yawning.

"Just what I need," he rumbled and ran a hand through his hair. He looked pretty tired. It generally seemed as if Sherlock had a virtually unlimited amount of energy at his disposal, and whenever he was working a case he had basically no need for sleep. And since he also forewent nourishment so that the process of digestion wouldn't slow down his brain, John tended to worry about his friend from time to time. His body must have been subjected to this kind of stress for years, and John wondered whether Sherlock would have to pay the price for it at some point.

He was therefore even more pleased to see that Sherlock had almost been enthusiastic about taking the plate. When the _bing!_ of the microwave sounded, Sherlock removed the first plate, put the second one in, and turned the appliance on again. When the second plate was also sufficiently heated, he put them both on the dining table and sat down. John fetched knives and forks from a drawer and sat across from him. John observed Sherlock carefully as he ate. It was rare for him to have his friend's thin, angular figure right in front of him like this. _Just transport_... Sherlock had said once, as if his mind and body refused to form a single unit.

"Aren't you cold?" John asked, trying not to let on that it was difficult for him to look away from the sight of the other man's skin. His eyes kept flitting absently across the various hills and valleys made by the bones, tendons, and muscles beneath his skin. The urge to trace them with his fingers was slowly gaining the upper hand. John moistened his lips with his tongue.

"It's not that cold. I was just about to go shower anyway..." Sherlock replied, "and then go to bed. My eyes are already falling shut."

"You should sleep more..." John said, poking listlessly at his food.

Sherlock raised his head and looked at John. He set aside his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair.

"You're worried about me," he stated. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly as if he were trying to suppress a smile.

John returned his housemate's challenging look for a moment. He licked his dry lips again before responding.

"Of course I am. We're friends."

"Yes," Sherlock said, reaching for his fork to skewer a piece of potato with it. " _Friends_."

John didn't know whether to interpret Sherlock's tone of voice as derogatory or sarcastic. He stood up with a sigh and left the kitchen to go up to his room.

 

+++

tbc

 


	23. Chapter 23

John stood at the window of his room, looking down at the pavement. Two men and a woman were talking on the other side of the street, laughing about something or other, waving to each other in parting before they went their separate ways. He glanced at his alarm clock. It was just after four. Actually a good time for enjoying the last hours of sunshine outside. But the subliminal threat that had made itself felt in his life – in their life – held him back.

If Moriarty was really behind the organisation, it would be difficult to gauge the amount of danger they were in. John had seen the madness in that man's eyes once already, and experienced it with his own body. Now it had caught up to Greg – although it still wasn't clear why he'd been singled out – and no matter what it took, Sherlock and Moriarty needed to be kept apart. Those two men, both fallen victim to a kind of madness, would consume each other like fighting fire with fire. Ashes would be all that was left of the people Sherlock and Moriarty had once been.

No, John wanted to avoid a situation like that at all costs. He would do anything – and everything – to prevent Sherlock from falling into the clutches of that madman or exposing himself blindly to a danger where he would be out of his depth. So many times, John had stood by when Sherlock foolishly put his life at risk simply in order to prove how clever he was. The question was, whom he still needed to prove that to. Sherlock himself was probably the only person who kept needing proof of that fact...

And if it turned out to be someone else – not Moriarty... If it all turned out to be a trick of Moran's to lead them down a blind alley, then hopefully they'd figure that out soon, before more people died a painful death. They needed to be sure. Somehow, they needed to find out who was behind Moran, who was pulling the strings.

Somehow...

John sighed. He hated the thought of Sherlock stumbling into danger. Whenever he realised that Sherlock was in mortal peril, it was surprisingly easy for him to draw his weapon and pull the trigger. Of course, that wasn't anything to brag about, and yet John was incredibly glad that he'd always been able to prevent the worst from happening.

_I don't know what I'd do if... if anything actually..._

John bit down on his lips disconsolately. He didn't want to think that thought through to the end. A life without Sherlock was nothing he even wanted to imagine.

_Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to accept that our relationship has changed... When he realises I'm not the one... he wants... When he understands that he doesn't really love me..._

Was that what Victor had wanted to tell him?

John sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth and crossed his arms reluctantly. Maybe this was all just some fancy, and Sherlock truly was incapable of developing romantic feelings for another person. Maybe he was just imagining he was in love, and when the truth came out, he'd feel that his assumption that it was just a chemical defect had been confirmed, and push away the person he'd supposedly loved. He probably wouldn't care what happened to them afterwards. After all, Sherlock wasn't exactly well known for being considerate of other people's feelings.

_It's horrible to think like that, even though I know Sherlock's different than most people think he is..._

John thought of the kiss. Of the deeply confusing feeling which that intimate interaction had triggered in him. His heart beat faster at the memory. Looking back later, John couldn't say why he decided to push off from the windowsill just then and leave his room to go back downstairs.

He heard Sherlock turn off the shower and hovered on the last step before the first-floor landing. His hands ran nervously over the bannister, as if seeking an anchor. Not knowing what else to do with himself, he remembered that the tea he'd made before eating must still be in the kitchen. He went in and reached for the pot, which stood untouched on the counter, and poured himself a cup. The tea was cooled down enough that he could drink it easily. John let his gaze wander through the kitchen, indecisive. Sherlock had cleared away the plates from dinner.

John's breath caught. Should he really...? Conflicting emotions made it hard to breathe. He stared at the cup in his hand, equivocating. It wasn't too late. He could still go back to his room, and no one would ever find out about this. About his inability to decide whether he should dare to take this step and bet everything on this one card.

What did he have to lose?

Everything.

What did he have to gain?

_Maybe a lot more..._

The small bit of courage that acted as the decisive weight to tip the scales set him in motion. He put down the cup, went out of the kitchen and down the hall to Sherlock's door. He opened it and went into his housemate's room. Sherlock was still in the bathroom, suspecting nothing of the intrusion.

John exhaled the air from his lungs tensely, looking irresolutely around the room and considering feverishly how things should go from here. How he should approach Sherlock. He sat down on the edge of the bed, ran his fingers nervously across his thighs, and tried to calm down. No, this wasn't a good place to be for the start. The window would be much more neutral ground. Less aggressive, less fraught with meaning...

Just as John wanted to get up, the bathroom door opened. His legs gave out, as if all the energy had been drained from his body, and he sat back down on the mattress. Plumes of steam issued forth from the bathroom, mixed with the scent of Sherlock's expensive soap. He stood barely two steps away from John with nothing more than a towel slung around his hips, staring at him.

_This was a stupid idea... this was a... bloody stupid..._

John's breath flowed shallowly out of his lungs, making his nostrils quiver nervously. His heart was beating so fast and hard against his ribs that it almost hurt. His eyes felt feverish when he let them wander over Sherlock, seeking something to latch on to. He was overly aware of the temperature in the room falling as the humidity redistributed itself. A shiver ran across his shoulders, back, and arms. He dug his fingers into the material of his jeans in order to dismiss the sensation of weightlessness as an illusion.

"John...?" Half question, half demand. A trace of uncertainty. A dash of disbelief. Maybe a tiny bit of hope, if one listened hard enough.

John looked up and nodded barely perceptibly. "I... erm..." John groped self-consciously for words. His head felt as if it had been swept clean, leaving him high and dry. He stood up, knees like jelly, trying to keep his balance. Sherlock still stood in the doorway with his hand on the door handle, his eyes alert and all of his senses sharpened. John took a hesitant step toward him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he took note of the fact that he still had a choice, that he could still leave and act as if nothing had happened. But he didn't choose that option.

Sherlock was now only a few centimetres away from him. Highlights reflected and caught in the strands of damp hair curling over his forehead. A few drops detached themselves, tumbling down onto his shoulders, his collarbone, lingering a moment before rolling down across his chest. John's eyes wandered down Sherlock's neck. He saw the pulse under Sherlock's skin where his blood pumped through his carotid artery.

The slightly parted lips, the steep curve of his Cupid's bow, the delicately drawn philtrum. The straight nose, the prominent cheekbones... the grey-blue of his eyes. Unsettled like the surface of a lake in a strong wind.

John stepped in a little closer. He lifted his hand, unsure for a moment where to put it; where he was allowed to put it. His fingers gently closed around Sherlock's lower arm, tentatively sliding up to his elbow and back down until they brushed the bones jutting out at his wrist. He watched with a certain degree of satisfaction as goose pimples worked their way up Sherlock's arm, making the fine hairs stand on end. He heard Sherlock inhale sharply and ventured to meet his eyes again.

With his free hand, he gripped the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down, stretching toward him at the same time. Their lips touched. As soft as a whisper. More coincidental contact than kiss. Lingering. Asking. Pleading. John's fingers buried themselves in the damp curls right above Sherlock's hairline, caressing the taut tendons of his neck in encouragement.

Sherlock met him halfway with a flowing motion, no hint of hesitation, and kissed him again. This time more direct, more aggressive. Hot breath on moist lips. Tips of tongues tentatively probing.

Sherlock clasped John's face in both hands, kissing him deeply, possessively. He swept his tongue across John's, demanding, eliciting a sigh of longing. John's hand, still wrapped around Sherlock's wrist, slid up his arm to his shoulder and across his back, drawing the other man closer. Bones under clammy skin. Heat and the smell of soap. Of Sherlock.

John somehow managed to get some air between kisses and open his eyes. Sherlock only stopped grudgingly, his breaths hectic. Their gazes lost in each other, submersing themselves deep down in the darkness of their pupils. Mirrors of the soul.

"John..." Sherlock rumbled, his voice low. At some point, his arms had wrapped themselves around John's waist and pulled him against his body. Like a drowning man, he clung to John, unwilling to let go. And more than prepared to drown in this flood of sensations which had been dammed up for so long.

John was surprised to feel the bedframe against his calves. He couldn't recall having walked backwards. Sherlock's kisses were taking too much control over his powers of perception. The world around him receded into nothingness. The cool sheets in juxtaposition to the heat between them. A soft surface, more freedom of movement for limbs to entwine around each other of their own accord. Feeling skin. The other body's resistance. Hard and soft, warm and cool. A feast of the most wondrous contrasts.

John leaned his head back expectantly when Sherlock's tongue licked hotly up his neck. Lips smacked, teeth scraped, and a tingling ran through his entire body, trailing sweetly off into the sounds making their way out of his throat. First fingers then palms went astray beneath his shirt, caressing his warm abdomen, the sharp edges of his ribs, his frantically trembling ribcage. The material parted and slipped aside, forgotten, revealing unexplored areas that were promptly palpated and fondled.

Skin: that incredible organ which holds a person together and separates the inside from the outside. Serving as an interface between two creatures, making physical contact possible in the first place. Giving off its very own scent, treasured and honoured by lovers. Transmitter and receiver of countless stimuli. How indescribably satisfying it could be to feel someone else's skin, to touch it, to grasp it. To allow such miraculous intimacy.

John's fingers ran through Sherlock's damp curls, something he'd always wanted to do without constraint, as he was surprised to note somewhere in the back of his mind. He tugged at the hair gently, wove single strands around his fingers, exploring their unruliness. He stroked the back of Sherlock's neck and shoulders with the tips of his fingers; now tender, now rough. Dug his nails into the skin there and enjoyed the shiver that ran through the other man in response.

Sherlock kissed his way across John's chest impatiently, barely lingering on any one spot, excitedly crowding up against every centimetre of John that he could reach. He slithered back up far enough to kiss John's lips, to capture them and nibble on them. To caress his tongue affectionately and suck on it. One of his legs pushed in between John's somewhat awkwardly as he slid on top of him. He rubbed the tip of his nose across John's cheek between hungry, breathless kisses, nudging him. Widened pupils sought contact with Sherlock's. And were met by a somewhat lost, utterly blissful expression.

"John..." Sherlock growled again, resting his forehead against John's. Restrained pants, shaky breaths. John reverently caressed Sherlock's cheek and jaw, let his hand slide down his neck, and inserted it under his arm to continue the trail on his elongated back. John felt every little twitch beneath his skin, every muscle, every tendon, even fancied he could feel the flow of his blood.

He felt along Sherlock's sacral triangle, his dimples of Venus, the swell of his arse, as if worshipping. The towel Sherlock had tied around his hips had fallen off a while ago. John swallowed over a dry throat when he realised that Sherlock was lying over him – on top of him – completely naked, while he himself was still dressed, aside from his unbuttoned shirt. As if in order to confirm the thought, Sherlock pushed his hips into John, letting John feel his erection straining urgently toward him.

A restrained moan escaped John as he tensed in order to crowd in closer to Sherlock, to intensify the sensations triggered by their mutual proximity. Sherlock kissed him again, ravenously, conquering John's mouth with his nimble tongue as he reached for John's arm, placed it over his shoulders, and gently stroked all the way from his elbow across his armpit down his ribs. There, Sherlock grabbed on hard, digging his fingers into John's flesh as if he wanted to reassure himself that he was real. That this was really happening.

When he reached the waistband of John's trousers, John flinched barely perceptibly. Torn between the desire that was forging a new path in him and the fear of having made a huge mistake.

Sherlock felt his uncertainty, paused, and sought to make eye contact. The sight of John's mussed hair, glassy eyes, and reddened cheeks took his breath away. He couldn't even recall anymore how often he'd yearned for this moment, and now that it was here, when he could finally kiss John, finally touch him and hold him in his arms, he was worried he might do something wrong.

This thing between them seemed to be so incredibly fragile that he was afraid he might break it with a single, thoughtless movement. He cautiously slid down to lie beside John, cuddling up close to him, their legs still intertwined so there was no space between them. His hand rested on John's stomach, his thumb carefully rubbing the hot skin and the dip of his navel. His other arm was angled underneath his head.

John turned onto his side, cradled Sherlock's face in both hands, and kissed him. Not turbulently or with excessive passion, but gentle and intense, as if he wanted to make the kiss unforgettable. His mind still seemed to be afloat on a mixture of bewilderment and relief, enjoying every second in all of its many notable aspects. It was like taking a breath of air after a seemingly endless dive that had compressed his lungs for what felt like forever.

He tenderly caressed Sherlock's cheek and chin, looking his fill. Although he'd known him for so long already, Sherlock looked completely different just now. The blissful expression on his face, his feverish eyes, the confusing rainbow of colours in his irises. John couldn't remember anymore why he'd hesitated before, why he'd wanted to put off this moment for as long as possible. In retrospect, all the panic didn't make any sense. What a terrible loss it would have been not to be right here, right now. Not to savour this magnificent connection. Not to still his hunger for the sight of this man, not to touch, not to feel... not to share all of this with each other...

And John wanted much more. He wanted to discover everything about Sherlock that had remained hidden from him up to now. He wanted to know how Sherlock reacted to each and every one of his touches, how he felt when he melted in John's hands, completely losing himself, how he sounded when he forgot how to form words. The melody and taste of his pleasure.

As if of their own accord, his fingers sought out contact with Sherlock's skin in order to stimulate his nerve endings, sending a shudder through him and lapping up his reactions. With a feather-light touch, his fingertips moved across Sherlock's chest and felt the vibrations of his heartbeat. So rapid that it brought an impish smirk to John's face. He moistened his lips and let his hand continue its peregrinations. Sherlock's gaze burned into him, but he continued to keep mostly still, letting John do as he wanted, letting him set the pace.

When John finally touched his erection, almost as an afterthought, Sherlock inhaled sharply as if he'd been hit by a jolt of electricity. Encouraged, John wrapped his hand around his aroused cock, gently feeling the skin as he slid down to the taut testicles, exploring his friend's most intimate places, to all appearances utterly calm.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, his eyebrows drawn together tightly. Spellbound, he followed the sensation of John's thumb as it rubbed the head of his penis, smearing the dampness that welled up there. With a moan bordering on desperation, he bridged the last few centimetres separating him from John's lips, inserted his tongue between them, and sank his teeth into them just a little too hard. His hips thrust forward without conscious thought to crowd closer to John's hand, wordlessly demanding more intense friction. John was only too happy to comply with the request, firming up his grip and speeding up the movements of his hand. Sherlock grasped the back of John's neck clumsily, leaning his forehead against John's. They somehow managed to fall into a harmonious rhythm. Giving and taking. Panting hoarsely.

Individual syllables kept tumbling out of Sherlock's throat. Now a breathy 'yes', now a name spoken with erotic desire. His fingers and nails left marks on John's fair skin, red half-moons and softly delineated ovals. Supporting himself on the arm that had been under his head, Sherlock shifted his shaky limbs until he was over John and started moving his hips incessantly against John's body, thrusting into the relentless grip of the hand holding his erection.

John gasped, overwhelmed. The heat between them was almost more than he could stand, and he wished he could tear the clothes off his body to cool down. But he also didn't want to interrupt the stimuli which were engendering such an incredible reaction in Sherlock. The quivering of his straining muscles transferred to John when Sherlock leaned over and assumed the lead, seizing it in order to set the pace himself. It didn't matter – quite the opposite – John was that much more taken with being used in this manner, serving only to satisfy the other man's needs.

All the while, his own arousal was nearly driving him mad. His erection pressed painfully against the flies of his jeans, subjected to additional stimulation from Sherlock's pistoning motions against his crotch. He wouldn't be able to free himself from his trousers without pushing Sherlock away. Something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He'd rather come in his pants, which were probably already stained with spots of moisture.

Sherlock shifted his weight to the knee pushing into the mattress next to John's thigh in order to better direct his thrusting motions into John's hand. The arousal continued building up in his loins until he thought he was going to explode. His muscles tensed automatically, contracting and extinguishing all thought for a magnificent moment as he spilled over John's hand and stomach with a moan. A pleasant tingling flowed through his limbs, followed by goose pimples spreading across his sweaty body.

He continued to hold himself up over John with difficulty, breathing hard against his parted lips before they met his for an intimate kiss. John's grip relaxed and he cautiously stroked Sherlock's deflating cock, following the path of the waves of ecstasy. His own erection throbbed desperately beneath the layers of cloth, twitching expectantly with every movement that promised even the slightest bit of stimulation.

Before John realised what was happening, Sherlock had slid in between his legs and was tugging impatiently at his trousers. Despite a lack of coordination in his fingers, he managed to open John's flies and shove the various layers aside enough to free John's erection. John gasped with a combination of relief and immense arousal. He stretched up toward Sherlock in expectation of his touch, letting out a surprised sound when Sherlock bent down over him and licked his cock from root to tip.

All the air left his lungs when Sherlock's lips curved around his glans and started sucking on the sensitive flesh. John clawed his fingers into the sheets under him, seeking an anchor point and trying to stop his hips from jerking up. He couldn't suppress the instinct any longer when Sherlock inserted an arm under his thighs and held him firmly as he let John penetrate deeper into his mouth. John whimpered, the sound drenched with lust. The damp heat and the incessant friction from Sherlock's mouth and tongue were simply too much, along with the continual vibrations caused by Sherlock's soft sighs; the sight of those sensual lips encasing him.

It didn't take long until he couldn't endure the exquisite torture any longer. He clawed his fingers into Sherlock's hair, uninhibited, and threw his head back when he climaxed, exhaling a soundless moan. His body tensed up automatically to the point of pain, not relaxing until his muscles started to quake in protest. Every fibre of his being seemed to hum, exhausted but satiated. It took a moment for him to realise that Sherlock had wrapped his arms around John's waist and nestled in against his stomach.

"Did I hurt you...?" he asked hoarsely, stroking Sherlock's hair in apology.

Sherlock shook his head lightly, dropping a couple of random kisses on John's soft skin.

"Good..." John whispered and closed his eyes. "So good..." He heard Sherlock snort in amusement. The arms tightened around his waist, as if afraid that John would vanish into thin air if they let go. John relaxed, listening to their combined breathing, the sounds his hands made as they petted Sherlock's head, and the vague street noise drifting into the room from outside.

He must have fallen asleep at some point. Half asleep, he became aware of the tickling sensation of kisses on the nape of his neck. A warm body cuddling up to his back. An arm being draped over him. He sighed happily, somewhere between dream and reality.

The next time he woke up, it was dark. Only the light from the street fell through the window, revealing the outlines of shapes. Sherlock still lay nestled in close to John, his arms wrapped around him. Deep, regular breaths revealed that he was asleep. John languidly rubbed his eyes. He had no idea what time it was, but he guessed it to be two or three in the morning. His throat was completely parched. At the same time, his bladder made its presence known with an unpleasant pressure.

He carefully grasped Sherlock's wrist, trying to twist out of the embrace without waking him. Just as he was about to swing his legs out of bed, Sherlock jerked and his fingers dug into the material of John's shirt.

"Don't go..." he mumbled, barely audible.

John rubbed Sherlock's knuckles with a warm-hearted smile. "I'll be right back," he assured him, but Sherlock wouldn't let go. John quickly slipped out of his shirt as he didn't see any other way to get up. He turned to Sherlock, brushed a couple of strands of hair off his forehead, then got up and went into the bathroom as quietly as possible. He reluctantly turned on the light, blinking at the brightness shining into his eyes. After he'd pissed and washed his hands, he examined his tired-looking image in the mirror.

His eyes were drawn to the dried traces of semen on his stomach, and his heart skipped a beat. He took a deep breath and tried to sort through the confusing feelings gathering in his gut. He remembered how he'd felt after having sex with Greg in the shower at _Smax_. The excitement that had seized control of him. It had felt like an act of liberation. Every time they'd been intimate, he'd had the impression that he was discovering another piece of himself.

This time was different. It was still all very exciting, but not because it was new; rather, because... well, why? Because it was with Sherlock? Because he knew – or suspected – what Sherlock felt for him? Because whatever was between them, there were many more layers to it? He couldn't say, but it felt good. Right.

A smile stole across his lips at the thought. He took one of Sherlock's flannels, held it under the water, and wiped the evidence off his skin. Then he washed his face, wetted the back of his neck, and rinsed out his mouth. After he'd dried off, he left the bathroom through the second door, went over into the kitchen, and got a bottle of water, from which he greedily drank a few mouthfuls. Out in the living room, he slipped out of his jeans and socks, tossed them onto the couch, and grabbed the quilt that lay there. On the way back to Sherlock's bedroom, he turned off the bathroom light.

Since Sherlock was lying on top of the comforter and John didn't want to wake him, he spread the woollen blanket out over them. He nestled back in facing away from Sherlock, picked up his arm, and placed it around his waist. A satisfied rumble sounded close to his ear and warm breath wafted across the back of his neck. Lost in his own thoughts, John rubbed Sherlock's lower arm.

_I'm not going to let anything happen to you..._

+++

tbc

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John woke when the first rays of the sun fell through the window and landed on his face. The comforting warmth that surrounded him abolished any thoughts of getting up. Somewhere in his consciousness, he realised that he was lying on a bedcover that didn't feel like his, that he was covered with a woollen blanket instead, and that he wasn't alone.

Another body was pressing against his back, warm and heavy, one arm draped over him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Regular breaths heated the back of his neck. All of a sudden, the images from the previous night returned. John flung open his eyes. His heart beat frantically in his chest.

So it was true. He was lying in Sherlock's bed. With Sherlock. The fact that Sherlock was sleeping so deeply confused John a bit. He'd always thought of Sherlock as a restless sleeper who was constantly waking up at night or tossing and turning from one side to the other. Instead, he didn't seem to have moved a single millimetre. Continuously snuggled up against John as if he wanted to prevent him from sneaking off unnoticed at all costs.

A pleasant shiver ran through John's body when he recalled the wistful kisses, the touches, and the sounds of bliss. The thought of lips closing around his erection made his cock twitch with interest. He absently ran his fingers along the forearm and wrist lying on top of the bedcover in front of his chest. He traced the thumb and knuckles, slid his hand underneath Sherlock's, and lifted it to his lips in order to place a kiss on the palm.

Sherlock moved behind him, letting out a soft sigh. His nose nudged in more tightly against John's nape, greedily inhaling the scent at his hairline while his fingers cautiously caressed the skin of John's cheek.

"I need to see what time it is, Sherlock..." John declared and tried to free himself from the embrace. The arm around his body tensed and pulled him back, unwilling to let him go.

"Shortly after five..." Sherlock rumbled. "The sun's just come up. You always get up at this time..."

John somehow managed to turn onto his back without Sherlock having to let go of him. Sherlock lay by John's shoulder, his eyes closed, about to fall back asleep. The last few days must have really got to him. John couldn't remember ever having seen him sleep so long. He regarded the face of the man beside him dreamily and brushed some stray hairs off his forehead. Being able to observe him so freely had been a rare opportunity up to now.

He still couldn't believe what had taken place between them. The fact that he'd actually decided to take the step of opening himself up to Sherlock, perhaps even sacrificing their friendship if it should all backfire. But he was well aware of the fact that so much had changed between them already that there wouldn't have been any other choice anyway. To move out, to leave Baker Street, would have been the only alternative, and that was not an option.

This eccentric man with the striking cheekbones meant too much to him, even if he'd caused John quite a lot of worry. And in the end, John couldn't fight his own nature. He loved risk, danger, and excitement, and that had all multiplied when Sherlock entered his life. A life spent just ticking over simply in order not to lose something that no one owned anyway – that was no life for John Watson. Friendship, love... those weren't things anyone could claim and keep like an inanimate treasure. They were dynamic, alive, changeable – and it was good that way.

When a nervous prickling ran through his legs and the urge for action made the previously pleasant intimacy more and more unbearable, he finally made an attempt to extricate himself from the embrace and get up, causing Sherlock to suddenly became wide awake. Before John could swing his legs off the bed, Sherlock had grabbed him and taken advantage of the moment of surprise to wrestle John onto his stomach. Sherlock held onto his wrists and pushed John down into the bed with his full weight.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock growled close to his ear, and John almost choked on his cut-off breath. His heart pumped adrenaline through his veins, mixed with happy anticipation. He had to work hard in order not to press back hungrily into Sherlock's body, to confess to himself and to Sherlock how incredibly arousing this moment was to him.

"I... need to go... to work..." John panted abashedly, turning his face away in order to hide the traitorous heat that rose to his cheeks.

"Mm-hm..." Sherlock said, and the low bass of his voice went straight to the marrow of John's bones. "But not quite yet..."

John bit down on his lips. The urge to touch Sherlock, to pull him close – even though he was hardly in a position to do so – was just about to gain the upper hand.

_… and you'd let him._

Victor's words sounded unbidden like a distant echo in his memory, and John swallowed hard. Was it always going to be like this? Would Sherlock simply crash over John like a force of nature and turn his life upside-down – even more than usual? Sherlock typically issued edicts right over other people's heads, pushing through his own decisions and ignoring any protests. Could John allow that without putting up any defence? Did he even want to?

Sherlock's tongue under his earlobe and the teeth gently nibbling on his tender skin erased the objection hovering on his tongue. John inhaled sharply when goose pimples spread down his back, making his shiver.

"Not...fair..." he whimpered.

Sherlock didn't let up, kissing and licking the shell of John's ear, across his neck and nape. His hands closed more firmly around John's wrists and Sherlock's weight pushed him into the mattress, defenceless. One knee inserted itself between his thighs, rubbing the inside of his legs and his arse. John writhed helplessly underneath Sherlock, utterly captivated by the intimacy and the sense of expectation inexorably building inside him.

"Sherlock?" a voice rang out from the other side of the door.

John flipped over as if struck by lightning, pushing Sherlock away at the same time, and lost his balance. He landed on the floor between the dresser and the bed with a crash just as a knock sounded on the door.

"Sherlock?" The door opened a crack, and Mrs Hudson stuck her head in. Sherlock had promptly wrapped himself in the woollen blanket and sat up cross-legged on the bed. He blinked up at the old woman, indignant. John lay completely still next to the bed, trying not to make a sound.

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson. Why are you up so early?" Sherlock asked, running a hand through his tangled curls.

"Early? It's nearly nine! I've been up for hours and..." She waved off whatever she was going to say next as if it were unimportant. "Oh, Sherlock, it's terribly awkward but... this letter for John must have arrived last week and got mixed in amongst my papers. It looks rather important. I hope it's not bad news!" she said, holding the envelope aloft.

Sherlock recognised the logo printed on it, but only nodded. John, who was still lying next to the bed, bit down on the knuckles of his fist, aggravated. Not just because it was much later than he'd originally thought, but now he couldn't just stand up and take the apparently important letter from Mrs Hudson. After all, if the document weren't so crucial, she could have just left it in the kitchen or the living room and apologised later.

"Do you know where John is? He's not in his room..."

"He must have left for work already," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to suppress an inappropriate grin.

Mrs Hudson sighed, discouraged. "He didn't take his phone with him either. It's still in the trousers he left in the living room. I hope he doesn't expect me to tidy up after him! I'm not your housekeeper!" she complained and pulled the door shut behind her. On the way down the hall, she called back: "I'll leave the letter on the desk!"

The clicking of her shoes on the wooden floor faded away, and John slapped his hands over his face in exasperation, muttering discontentedly.

"Everything all right?" Sherlock asked, looking down at him over the edge of the bed with a mischievous smile.

John lowered his hands and returned the look disapprovingly. "It's not funny!" he grumbled and sat up. "You said it was shortly after five!"

Sherlock shrugged. "I guessed!"

"Now I'm going to be late, on top of having left early yesterday. Did you see what the letter was?"

Sherlock nodded and regarded John for a while before responding. "From the magistrate's court."

John was very still for a moment. His thoughts wandered back to that evening when he was attacked and brought to hospital by the police, then later comforted by Sherlock. The evening when Greg had finally been found. His throat was suddenly as dry as a bone.

"I need to go," he said, struggling to his feet. Without looking back, he left the room, took his jeans and socks from the couch, and hurried up the stairs to the second floor. After performing a haphazard top and tail wash and slipping into clean clothes, he picked up the envelope from the living room and rushed to get to work.

 

******

 

It wasn't until he took a late lunch break that John managed to read the letter. His boss had dropped by for a quick chat, asking whether everything was all right since John seemed to have trouble maintaining his work hours recently. John had apologised profusely and promised to make up the missing hours as soon as he could. Since St Bartholomew's Hospital was chronically short-staffed, his boss was happy to accept the offer. John was left to organise the extra shifts with his co-workers.

After he had bought himself a sandwich and a black tea, he withdrew to his office with the letter to read it. It was a summons from the magistrate's court. As expected, it concerned the scuffle between him and the three men who had set a trap for him three weeks earlier. A painful throbbing arose inside John's temple at the memory. He pinched the bridge of his nose, blinked furiously a few times, and drained his cup of tea before skimming the document one more time.

The letter was already two weeks old, and the target date tomorrow morning. It was obviously the best of a bad job that Mrs Hudson had found it just in the nick of time. John had maintained a vague hope that the whole thing would be dropped and forgotten. That Jeff and Phil and the other man would be brought to justice without his assistance, and be given a fair punishment. He very much disliked the thought of having to relate the series of events to a bunch of people. But there was nothing to be done.

John didn't know what was going on with Jeff at the moment. After all, Rankmore was mixed up in the case with the criminal organisation and the drug ring. One more blot on his record wouldn't be good for him at all. John hadn't been informed whether the other two were being watched by the police. Coming to a decision, he reached for his phone and brought up the number for his solicitor. After he'd explained the situation and apologised for needing her on such short notice, they agreed to meet the next day in front of the magistrate's court.

Following that, he went to his boss and explained the situation. He wasn't particularly happy about John taking another day off, but he made an exception due to the sensitive nature of the event and immediately shooed John out of his office.

When John turned onto Baker Street early that evening, a fluttering sensation came over him. For the first time that day, he suddenly thought of the interrupted morning, of Sherlock and how seductive it was to be close to him. He moistened his lips nervously when he opened the door to 221B and entered the building.

Sherlock sat at his desk with his laptop in front of him, typing something at high speed. He wore a dark grey suit and a blue shirt, which led to the conclusion that he had received clients earlier that day. He often didn't make an effort to get dressed when he wasn't expecting anyone or had no intention of going outside.

John paused for a moment in the doorway, observing the way the light from the laptop made Sherlock's face appear ghostly pale. His initial instinct was to go to his friend and place a hand on his back, to lean down and kiss him. But something held him back. It was all too new, too strange, for such an affectionate, familiar gesture to feel natural. Additionally, they still hadn't talked about the whole thing. And might never do so. Neither of them were big talkers when it came to emotions. And yet John felt like they'd have to define this thing sooner or later.

"I'm back," John finally said, smiling awkwardly.

"I can see that," Sherlock replied without looking up from his laptop. He seemed to be completely engrossed in his work.

_I'm married to my work._ How often had John heard that sentence from Sherlock before? How strange it was to experience it now in a completely different context. John pursed his lips, ran a hand disconsolately over the back of his neck, and went into the kitchen to make tea.

_What else did I expect? That everything would suddenly be different? Of course not..._

He made two cups out of force of habit and brought the second one to Sherlock, set it down on the desk, and then sat down himself on the other side. He watched Sherlock for a while as he drank his tea and feverishly considered whether he'd simply imagined last night, or whether everything had really happened the way he thought he remembered.

When his cup was empty, he set it down gently, got up, and left the living room in order to go upstairs. He wanted to catch up on the shower he hadn't got to have that morning. Just as he was unbuttoning his shirt, he heard the stairs creaking. Mere seconds later, Sherlock appeared in the door.

"What was in the letter?" he asked, leaning his shoulder against the door jamb.

John turned toward him with a neutral expression, hesitating a moment before speaking. "I have an appointment at court tomorrow. Because of the assault," he explained curtly, leaving Sherlock standing there when he went into the adjacent bathroom. After all, two could play that game!

Sherlock watched him go, irritated. His gaze lingered on the closed door until he heard the water running in the shower.

 

******

 

John couldn't fall asleep. It wasn't thoughts of the upcoming court appearance that were keeping him awake, but the queer feeling in his stomach. Had he made a mistake after all? Had Sherlock's interest in him waned already now that John had finally declared himself ready to start something with him? Had he done something wrong? Overlooked something? Or was Sherlock just being Sherlock?

_Maybe I was deluding myself,_ John thought, _and now I have to live with it..._ He pulled the bedcover closer around him and sighed unhappily. He would have loved to go downstairs and confront Sherlock if he hadn't been so sure he would be met with deaf ears. Sherlock probably wouldn't even understand what John was talking about. Everything would escalate and turn into a senseless argument. And for what?

_What's the problem anyway? That he greeted me the way he always does? That he didn't even look at me when I came through the door? God, I'm acting like a spoilt teen! What else did I expect?!_

He slammed his hand down on the mattress angrily and buried his face in the pillow. He then jumped when the door to his room closed. When he jerked around, Sherlock was standing there in the semi-darkness. Pyjama trousers, t-shirt, barefoot. John looked at him with a combination of annoyance and surprise. He hadn't even heard him coming up the stairs.

Sherlock started to say something but stopped and put a hand into his hair, subdued. John turned around so that he was sitting with his back against the headboard and looked over at his housemate, only able to imagine the expression on his face. The uneasiness indicated by his posture gave John a pang.

"I..." Sherlock began, rubbing his arm nervously, "I don't know what I've done wrong. I thought you didn't want anything to change between us... I tried to act the same as always... even though... How can I make it right, John?"

An indescribable sense of guilt pressed down on John's shoulders. The awkwardness of the situation didn't originate with Sherlock, but with him. Even though he knew Sherlock's experience with people was rather meagre, he'd expected things of him without even discussing what he wanted.

Strictly speaking, Sherlock had behaved precisely the way John had wanted. He'd acted just like always, despite the night they'd spent together, had gone about his usual business and filtered out the world around him – including John. No overly emotional scenes – which would have annoyed John, coming from Sherlock – no pushy displays of affection at every opportunity that offered itself. John realised that he'd insinuated to Sherlock that such things weren't good.

The attention that two people gave each other at the start of a relationship – no matter what kind – had seemed absurd in relation to Sherlock. But now he saw that that was exactly the kind of attention he yearned for. It was simply part and parcel of it. How much more confused must Sherlock be, who had never been on the receiving end of unconditional love.

John scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'm an idiot..." he said and went to Sherlock, laying a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry." He kissed him tentatively on the cheek.

Sherlock exhaled in relief. The tension, which was barely noticeable in the darkness, resolved itself, and he relaxed markedly.

"Can I... stay here?" he asked softly.

John giggled in embarrassment but replied in the affirmative and got back into bed. Sherlock snuggled up close to him, his head resting on John's chest. The whole thing seemed so surreal that John could only be amazed. This new side of Sherlock both surprised and bothered him. The emotional awkwardness in contrast to the passion; the attempt to do everything right despite his egocentric character... They'd need to work a while to strike a balance.

Together, they listened to each other breathing, the low-level street sounds, and their own thoughts as the room became quieter and quieter.

 

*****

 

John stomped out of the courtroom, cursing. His jaws clenched together and his hands curled into fists, he strode along the corridor, heading for the stairs leading to the ground floor. Behind him, the rapid clacking of his solicitor's heels rang out as she tried to catch up to him.

"Doctor Watson!" she cried, reaching for his arm.

It took all of his willpower not to shout at her unfairly as he turned to face her.

"Can't we appeal?" he barked.

"I'm really very sorry, but the judgment of disproportionality lies solely at the discretion of the judge and expert witness! We can submit an appeal but the likelihood of being heard is extremely low in a case like this..." his solicitor replied in resignation.

John huffed with frustration and rubbed his face with both hands. "This cannot be happening..." he muttered.

"At least Jeffrey Rankmore's behind bars..." the lawyer said. It sounded a little like an olive branch.

John laughed dryly. "Yeah... but that has nothing to do with my case! The guy has more than enough dirt behind his ears – they would have locked him up anyway! But beating someone up in a public space purely out of … dislike... no, that's not enough!" He turned away from her and tugged peevishly at the knot of his tie as he went down the stairs to leave the court building.

His anger was dampened greatly when he discovered Sherlock on the pavement. He stood in the sun, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit jacket, letting his eyes graze absently across the passers-by. When John had left the flat that morning, he'd been certain that Sherlock wouldn't accompany him. John hadn't asked, and they hadn't discussed it any further. But now here he was to pick John up and find out the result of the hearing.

"Sherlock..." John said, his voice suddenly feeble. The addressee turned toward him. The tentative smile that had just graced his face disappeared at the sight of John.

"What happened?" he asked, concerned.

"It's ridiculous," John said, shaking his head incredulously and pursing his lips.

They got a cab and decided to go to Angelo's to have something to eat. Once they were seated at the table and the drinks had been served, John took a big sip of his sparkling water and sighed heavily before he started to speak.

"Only Philip and that... Paige or whatever his name is... were there. Rankmore is already in the nick for dealing. But his solicitor was there. All three were found guilty of premeditated assault. The doctor who treated me at Bart's wrote a fairly convincing report. But the medical reports for those three bastards weren't anything to thumb your nose at either. I couldn't prove that they attacked me because of... of..." John stopped short and bit his lips. "That I was discriminated against. No witnesses, so it was my word against theirs. I was granted the argument of self-defence, since it was three against one that was pretty much the only conclusion. But according to the judge, my actions and the damage I did were too disproportionate to the initial attack, and they were awarded compensation."

John snorted angrily. "Can you believe it? There I am fighting for my life and just because I have better aim than those wankers, it's my fault?! If they'd broken my nose instead, everything would be different. Although..." He wiped some imaginary crumbs off the table, scowling. "Probably not even then. Justice is never served to people like... me."

Sherlock had been listening and waiting calmly the entire time. When the monologue concluded, he placed his hand on top of John's, but John pulled away from him, reached for his glass, and drained the rest of its contents all at once. Still upset, John crossed his arms and looked out the window.

"How high is the amount?" Sherlock asked tonelessly, trying not to take the rejection personally.

"Two thousand pounds. My solicitor said I got off easy..."

They didn't say anything more until the food was brought to the table. They poked at it listlessly, only eating a bit, then had the rest packed up to take home with them. Sherlock tapped around on his phone for a while in the taxi on the way back to Baker Street. John didn't pay him any mind. He was too tangled up in the thoughts still circling his mind about the injustice of that bloody court hearing. He simply could not explain how a result like that had come about.

Back at 221B, John peeled his jacket off his shoulders, tossed it over the armrest on the couch, and sat down. He ran his hands over his face in frustration then rested them on his knees and stared at an invisible spot in the middle of the room. The storm of indignation inside him was taking a long time to fade.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen and hovered there uncertainly for a moment before going to John after all and crouching down in front of him. When he tried to take John's hand, though, John pulled back and rubbed his mouth, evading Sherlock's eyes.

This time, Sherlock didn't let himself be put off so easily. He grasped John's wrist firmly and pulled it back onto John's knee. He felt John's resistance quite clearly and was sure he was about to be rejected at any second. But John allowed him to do as he wanted. Sherlock could still feel the tension in John's arm, so he gently rubbed John's hand with his thumb and looked up at him.

"It doesn't do any good to torture yourself, John. To try to deny your nature because of this affair won't make you happy... You are who you are – and that's a good thing..." he said in a placating tone.

John didn't react, instead avoiding looking at him, apparently desperately seeking some fixed point in the room where he could anchor himself mentally. Sherlock lifted himself up and slid his knees onto the couch on either side of John's, climbed into his lap, and put his arms around John's neck so that he was forced to look at Sherlock.

"What are you..." John started to protest, but before he could finish the sentence, Sherlock's lips were on his. John's stomach did flip-flops, his heart suddenly started frantically pumping blood through his veins, and his hands landed on Sherlock's thighs as if of their own accord in order to counteract the sensation of falling. Sherlock's fingers ran tenderly through his hair, eliciting a pleasant tingling that wandered down his back.

Their mouths met again and again before Sherlock's tongue tapped at John's bottom lip possessively. John sighed and met the demand, letting Sherlock's tongue slide into his mouth, and returned the caresses with stuttering breaths. His arms snaked around Sherlock's waist, pulling him in closer. He was overwhelmed by how thirsty he was to be touched and fondled. To be so close to Sherlock, to be accepted so unconditionally, was a wonderful feeling.

He was therefore that much more disappointed when Sherlock broke off the kiss. He looked down at John through half-lidded eyes, stroking his cheek and jaw. Fingers skittered down John's neck, opening his collar and placket, slipping underneath the material, over the fine ribbing of his vest. They very lightly touched the sliver of exposed skin, ran up to John's nape and drew him in for a deep kiss.

John moaned against Sherlock's lips. His hands spanned Sherlock's torso, digging into the anthracite-coloured suit jacket and making an awkward attempt to pull it off his shoulders.

Sherlock's hand ran over John's chest and neck, pressing hard against his collarbone to end the kiss and creating more distance between them than either of them wanted. The feverish gleam in Sherlock's eyes, coupled with his reddened lips, almost drove John round the bend.

"Bedroom?" Sherlock suggested, his low voice infused with raw lust.

Breathing heavily, John couldn't manage anything more than a nod. He laced his fingers between Sherlock's and followed him through the kitchen, down the hall, and into Sherlock's room.

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I don't know anything about the British justice system and only looked around in Wikipedia and Google a little. For that reason, just assume that I've spouted nonsense about the hearing. :) I beg for leniency!
> 
> P.S. There's a plot-relevant reason for the way things went.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

It was hard for John to breathe as he followed Sherlock through the flat. He struggled to take in air through his mouth, trying to blow it out again silently in order not to let his nervousness show. His mind was racing.

Although he'd become closer to Sherlock over the past few days, every touch, every kiss, set off miniature fireworks, thoroughly discombobulating him. Sherlock's lips on his, the hands stroking him, and the unfathomable looks all jerked John completely out of the world he'd known up to that point. The deep confusion he felt wasn't unpleasant at all; rather, it was an amazing new experience that involved all of his senses.

His eyes fixed on Sherlock's back, he was abruptly seized by a desire to grab him and push him up against the wall, tear his shirt off, and sink his teeth into the back of his neck. Solely in order to experience his reaction, to hear the sounds of ecstasy dropping from his lips like pearls. _No passion..._ how could he have been so blind for so long?

John awkwardly slipped out of his shoes once they were inside Sherlock's room and had closed the door behind them. He peeled the socks off his feet, straightened, and fiddled with the rest of the buttons on his shirt which Sherlock hadn't undone already. Sherlock was also unbuttoning his shirt, slowly and solemnly, without taking his eyes off John's. He was clearly enjoying the nervousness reflected in John's face and shaky fingers.

When John hesitated after pulling his shirt off his shoulders, Sherlock came closer. He stopped with his face barely a centimetre away from John's, as if he were about to kiss him. John could feel the heat radiating off Sherlock's body, his breath on John's face, the searching gaze. He sucked in air excitedly when Sherlock grasped his belt buckle, not touching him anywhere else. He wanted so badly to pull Sherlock in close to him, but at the same time he was enjoying the excruciating tension between them.

Sherlock wordlessly unbuttoned John's trousers and pulled down his zip. In doing so, he seemingly inadvertently brushed the bulge that was clearly outlined inside his pants. He pushed John's trousers down past his hips, the soft material of the suit sliding down his legs as if of its own accord and gathering in a pile at his feet. Sherlock grasped the bottom edge of John's vest, pulled it up over his head in a single fluid motion, and tossed it carelessly aside. A playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the faraway expression on John's face.

"Everything all right?" he asked, his voice low and soft as velvet.

John swallowed, dazed, and nodded once.

"Turn around," Sherlock instructed him. His eyes flashed, and John licked his dry lips then complied with the order after a brief hesitation. Sherlock placed his hand on John's lower back and pushed him into the wall between the bathroom and bedroom door, so that John had to rest his lower arms against it to support himself. Sherlock rubbed John's cervical vertebrae and dug into the skin between his neck and shoulder, the contrast between the cold wall and Sherlock's burning hand sparking goose pimples that spread across John's entire body.

Sherlock carefully deposited a kiss on John's nape, running his hands over his shoulder blades while his thumbs stroked their way down his spine. He crouched down in a single fluid motion, supporting himself on his knee and holding onto John's waist. He placed a kiss on John's sacral triangle, hooked his fingers into his pants, and drew them down past his hips. John tried in vain to suppress a moan, biting down on his lips and curling his hands into fists. The material and lips brushing his skin electrified him, making him quiver.

He rested his forehead against the wall, panting, and closed his eyes, feeling the echo of even the slightest touch. The way Sherlock's hands slid up his legs, brushing the backs of his knees and tracing the curve of his arse. The way Sherlock's searing breath seemed to singe him, and the way feathery kisses titillated his taut nerves. He gasped audibly for air when he felt Sherlock's tongue on his back as it licked its way slowly up every single bump of his spine until it arrived at the dip underneath John's ear and tenderly sucked his earlobe in between Sherlock's teeth.

Sherlock's body surged in close to John. Cool cloth alternated with warm skin where his shirt was open. Hands reached around him, skilfully rubbing his erect cock and its moist tip. John crowded back against Sherlock impatiently, feeling Sherlock's erection on his hip, and groaned, intoxicated. With one hand, Sherlock turned John's head to one side so that he could kiss him over his shoulder. He nibbled hungrily at his lips, pushing his tongue into John's willing mouth, and sighed softly before kissing his way across John's jaw, neck, and shoulder. He stroked John's erection ardently, enjoying the desperate moans, the uncontrolled counter-motions, and bit down again on the crook of his neck.

"Sherlock..." John whimpered, transcendent, thrusting impatiently into the hand wrapped around his cock. But rather than intensifying the friction, Sherlock paused, caressed his skin one more time, and finally let go entirely and moved away. John's back turned cold instantly.

"Lie down," Sherlock commanded, taking a couple of steps back to let John move past.

John complied with the demand, climbed onto the bed, and lay down on his side. Propped up on his elbow, he looked over at Sherlock, who was prying his shoes off with his toes and unbuckling his belt at the same time. He took off his trousers and pants, peeled off his socks, and left everything lying on the floor. John watched enthralled as Sherlock slowly pushed his open shirt off his shoulders and let it slide down. Although he was already nude underneath, the removal of that last article of clothing seemed incredibly lascivious. John licked his lips unconsciously.

He stretched one hand out toward Sherlock, who took it and let himself be pulled onto the bed without any resistance. Their mouths met in a passionate kiss. Seeking an anchor point in each other, they slid across the sheets, getting tangled up together, digging into flesh and bones. The sound of skin on skin and pleading breaths combined with lust-filled moans to fill the room and make the world around them recede ever further away.

John gasped in surprise when the tip of Sherlock's tongue cautiously licked the web of scars on his left shoulder. His skin was incredibly sensitive there, despite the fact that the white ridges suggested something else entirely. He generally withdrew from any approach to that spot as a matter of habit, if the terrible disfigurement even received any attention from his partners. He followed out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock very gently continued his caresses, trading off between lips and tongue and exploring every millimetre. A warm sense of gratitude spread through John's body, and he ran his fingers dreamily through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock lifted his head, nestling into John's hand and smiling at him softly. John leaned into him for a kiss and returned the smile. Sherlock enjoyed the touches for a moment before turning his head away beneath John's hand and sitting up to reach into the drawer of his nightstand. John watched, his heart pounding, as Sherlock took out the lubricant and two condoms. He knelt up on the bed, inserted one leg between John's thighs, and looked down at him as he clicked open the lid of the tube with his thumb.

He squeezed some onto his fingers then bent down to John and kissed him. His unrestrained moan and increasingly rapid breaths informed John that Sherlock had just inserted at least one finger into his own body. An electric buzz zapped through John, making his cock twitch with anticipation. He took the condom with shaky fingers, tore open the foil, and removed the prophylactic. His eyes flicked back and forth from Sherlock's pink cheeks to his own erection, and unrolled the condom over it. As soon as he had done that, he ran his hands over Sherlock's body and face, drawing him once more into a kiss. He encircled Sherlock's erection, providing him with additional stimulation with a practised grip.

The lust building inside him was about to drive him mad. Seeing Sherlock stretching himself, loosening his muscles, without really being able to see or do anything himself both frustrated and aroused John in all the most contradictory ways.

"Come on..." he growled, sucking hard on Sherlock's lips and tugging at the back of his knee to get him to move closer.

A fleeting smile played around Sherlock's lips, reflected in his glassy eyes. "Impatient..." he teased, but complied with the request. He straightened up, swung the leg over John's hip which he'd had pressed into the mattress between John's legs, and reached for John's cock behind his back. John watched, tense and breathless, as Sherlock slowly – so fucking slowly – sank down onto his erect penis, stopping several times and withdrawing a bit to relax his overtaxed muscles, before finally letting John penetrate him further.

It took a huge amount of willpower on John's part not to thrust his hips upward into Sherlock's pliant body. He bit down on his lips, dug his fingers into Sherlock's thigh, and tried to make eye contact. But Sherlock kept his eyes closed until he'd swallowed John up completely inside him. Only then did he open them, breathing rapidly. John straightened up as much as he could, gripped the back of Sherlock's neck, and kissed him demandingly, sucking on his lips. The tightness and heat of Sherlock's body held him utterly in their thrall.

Sherlock returned the kiss, only to push John down onto his back a few moments later, and started to slowly circle his hips. He sighed happily, dragged his teeth across his bottom lip, and rolled his neck. His mouth parted in a soft moan, and John ran his hand down Sherlock's cheek, slotting his thumb into his Cupid's bow. Sherlock's tongue peeped out and licked his thumb playfully.

His movements became more provocative, more salacious, and more rapid. He supported himself on the headboard, panting, and took John deep inside him. John recklessly moaned Sherlock's name, dug his nails into him and pumped his hips up into that marvellous, tight heat.

"Oh God... yes!" John gasped when Sherlock tensed his muscles inside, intensifying the stimulation accompanying that upward motion until it was virtually merciless. Sherlock let him invade his body over and over, groaning and quivering with pleasure. To be used by Sherlock in this manner, not having any control over the situation, serving as another person's plaything, was overwhelming. John felt himself inexorably approaching his climax.

He was so close to coming when Sherlock's movements suddenly slowed. He held himself up with his hands on either side of John's head, breathing hard, looked down at him, and gave him a lazy smile when John looked back at him, irritated.

"Turn over," Sherlock rumbled in a low voice, his pupils blown so wide that the grey-blue of his irises was barely visible. He straightened up, released John from his body, and made a prompting motion with his head to reiterate what he'd just said. John finally complied and rolled onto his stomach, his heart pounding. Sherlock was on top of him again in an instant, kissing and nibbling across his back, sucking his skin and eliciting delightful shivers that served to escalate John's arousal even further.

Sherlock's mouth was joined by his hands, constantly seeking in their wanderings across John's skin, until those long, slim fingers finally slid in between his arse cheeks. John let out a restrained moan when they passed over the ring of muscle there, shifting his legs so they were a little further apart and arching his back to lean into the touch. A moment later, he flinched automatically with he felt Sherlock's tongue in place of his fingers.

"What the...! _God_ , Sherlock..." John whimpered, torn between shame and lust. Sherlock's tongue slid hot and wet across his furled hole, activating dozens of nerve endings that had never known – or expected – such stimulation. John moaned freely, always a moment away from putting some distance between them, twisting out of Sherlock's grip which held him in place. His legs quivered with tension, his breath came in short gasps, and his face burnt with shame.

Sherlock doggedly held onto John's hips with one arm wrapped around them while his free hand slid between John's arse cheeks, spreading them apart and giving his tongue more space to work. The ecstatic moan that John made was muffled by the pillow, but it only incited Sherlock even more to let his tongue dance teasingly around the opening. He felt John slowly melting underneath him, surrendering his resistance and abandoning himself to the fiendish stimulation, sighing and whimpering in his stupor.

Sherlock's fingers replaced his tongue again, sliding across the slippery spot and deliberately penetrating John's body. John shuddered involuntarily, surging back towards Sherlock in a silent plea. He'd lost all ability to form a coherent thought long ago. He surrendered himself mindlessly to all the irrational emotions washing through his body. To the lust and passion which had utterly put him under their spell.

When Sherlock lifted off of him and sat up, John turned his head to look over his shoulder. With tangled hair and red cheeks, he watched as Sherlock reached for the remaining foil packet and tore it open with his teeth due to his wet fingers, extracted the condom, and rolled it down over himself. John took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heartbeat and prepare himself. He stroked his almost painful erection with shaky fingers, removed the bothersome prophylactic, and sighed softly. Sherlock leaned down to him, kissing his way along John's shoulder until he reached his face, then grabbed him by the hair and turned his head far enough to be able to push his tongue into John's willing mouth.

"Please... Sherlock..." John murmured between two kisses, cosying up to him in searing anticipation.

Sherlock felt blindly for the lube, reluctantly pulling away from those delectable lips, and sat up far enough to be able to distribute the colourless gel on his erection. Then he slowly and deliberately pushed into John's body. An uncontrolled trembling ran through John and he clawed his fingers into the sheets, moaning into the pillow with something close to desperation.

When Sherlock was fully seated inside him, he paused and ran his hand down John's sweat-damp back, digging his fingers into his skin as if to reassure himself that the body under him was real. Then he gradually starting moving, rocking them in a mutual rhythm. John's deep breaths got faster and faster, ending in lust-filled sighs more and more frequently. He threw his head back with a gasp when Sherlock hit the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him, sending adrenaline rushing through his body. He let his forehead sink down onto his forearm, conquered, no longer with a will of his own, having surrendered himself entirely to the other man.

Sherlock's hand between his shoulder blades pushed him down onto the mattress, leaving no room for argument. He slung one arm around John's shoulders and pressed his face against John's nape and hair, greedily inhaling his scent. He plunged into John's pliant body over and over, grasping John's hip with his free hand and intensifying his thrusts.

John, no longer able to move the hand on his erection under the weight of both of their bodies, whimpered, drunk on pleasure. Only the motion of their two bodies caused any stimulation, continuously sending the most wonderful signals through his body, tossing him higher and higher on the waves of ecstasy.

"I'm co... Oh god!"

Despite the continual ramping up of his arousal, John's climax caught him off guard. Electrical impulses shot across his skin and nerves, making his entire body contract uncontrollably, and hot liquid spurted between his stomach and the sheet. With every frenetic thrust into his body, his orgasm seemed to be drawn out a little bit longer until John was nothing more than a quivering mass, utterly disconnected and buzzing blissfully.

Sherlock's low moan echoed in John's ears when his body tensed with lust and he came just a moment afterwards. He held John in a loose grasp, whispering his name over and over, burning John's skin with his hot breath. He lay on top of John, drained and unable to move so much as a single centimetre.

John revelled in the sensation of satiation that suffused him. His mind was virtually drowning in endorphins. Exhaustion crept into his limbs. After a while, Sherlock pulled away from him and slid onto his side a little awkwardly, groping for a tissue on the nightstand and removing the condom. John turned to him, dropping feather-light kisses on his shoulder in order not to relinquish the contact between them entirely. Their hands found each other, their fingers interlacing. John reached his other hand out and ran it down Sherlock's cheek, turning his head slightly so that Sherlock was looking at him. The grey-blue in his eyes reminded John of a stormy sky, of thunderclouds and restless waves.

Sherlock nestled in against John's chest with a happy sigh, draped his arm over him, and closed his eyes. They lay beside each other for a long time, enjoying the closeness and fading euphoria. John ran his hand over Sherlock's sweaty curls and clammy back. His brain dragged its feet about declaring itself fit for functioning again and producing coherent thoughts. Sherlock's body within his embrace felt unreal, and at the same time so incredibly familiar. Like a puzzle piece whose preordained position he had finally become aware of. He leaned over Sherlock to kiss him on the forehead and smiled at the sense of happiness that spread warmly through his belly.

They didn't manage to get up until over an hour later. By that time, afternoon was turning into evening, and they were getting hungry. Since neither of them had eaten much for lunch, John warmed up the food they'd had packed up at the restaurant while Sherlock got into the shower. John had a shower afterwards. The warm water running over his head did him good. With a dreamy smile, he reflected back on the past few hours and enjoyed the tingling in his stomach that kept making its presence known.

He was glad Sherlock had been there for him right when doubts had begun to nag at him again. That he'd simply put an end to John's despair and swept it away like dead leaves. No, he didn't want to go back to his old self, closed off and refusing to accept his true nature. How could something that felt so good be bad?

When he came out of the bathroom and walked into the living room with a towel around his hips, he saw Sherlock standing at the window reading something on his mobile phone.

"Any news?" John asked, pushing the wet hair off his forehead.

Sherlock turned toward him and dropped the phone into the pocket of his dressing gown. "No," he replied, shaking his head.

John got the feeling that wasn't the whole truth, but decided to leave it for the moment. Instead, he merely nodded and went upstairs to put something on. His room felt cold and lifeless, in contrast to Sherlock's, which he now associated with warmth and exuberant passion.

What would it be like in future? John wondered as he took some clothes out of his wardrobe and put them on. Should they only use one bedroom from now on? Share the bed every night? Should he leave his things here or take them down with him? Did it make more sense to keep this room as a potential place to retreat to? John didn't know the answers to these questions. They'd have to talk about it eventually.

 

*****

 

Since John had quite a few hours to make up at work, he stayed longer at St. Bartholomew's Hospital on Friday, taking over several patients from his colleagues. He also worked out with the other doctors on the ward when he'd make up the rest of the hours.

As usual, there was a lot going on that Friday, and John barely had a minute to sit down and rest. But he was in an especially good mood and filled with energy, so it didn't bother him. In the few moments he could spend thinking about Sherlock, he had the urge to send him a text message. But he couldn't think of anything useful that he might have written. He didn't want Sherlock to think he'd suddenly become clingy, but admitting that to himself was difficult.

He thought wistfully back to that morning, when he'd woken up with Sherlock's arms and legs wrapped around him, listening to the even breaths on his nape. It had been a wonderful feeling to wake up next to him, not to know where his own body ended and the other one began.

It was already dark when John finally set foot outside the hospital. He was looking forward to the upcoming weekend, and smiled impishly at the thought that he hoped very much not to have to leave the bed very often in the next few days. Making a spur of the moment decision, he picked up something to eat from the Chinese restaurant on Baker Street before unlocking the door to 221B and climbing the stairs to the first floor. From the stairwell, he could already hear muffled voices in the living room. He easily picked out Sherlock's rich bass and smiled.

However, he froze in the doorway as soon as he came in. Sherlock stood beside the desk, his arms crossed, looking down at his guest. On the couch sat Victor, legs splayed, his arms stretched out across the back of the seat, nonchalant as ever. He was bouncing his left leg lackadaisically and drumming his fingers on the leather upholstery as if he couldn't sit still. A provocative smile graced his face, and his eyes flashed from beneath bedraggled strands of blond hair.

"Hello," John said simply, but neither of the two rewarded him with so much as a glance. He cleared his throat. "What are you doing here?" he added, addressing Victor.

Victor finally tilted his head to look at the new arrival from a low angle, taking his own sweet time looking him over.

"I'm just checking up on things," Victor answered easily. Although he wasn't on eye level with the other two, his posture and attitude gave the impression that he was the lord of the manor. Now that John could see his whole face, he noticed that there was a red blotch spreading underneath Victor's three-day beard, and that his lip was split.

"Sherlock?" John prompted his friend for an explanation, with a threatening undertone. Whatever was going on here, he didn't like it one bit.

When Sherlock finally faced him, John inhaled sharply. A scratch was clearly visible on his face, stretching from his cheekbone to his lip. At least two well-placed blows must have hit him. John was at his side in less than two strides, setting the bag with the Chinese food down on the desk and cradling Sherlock's face in order to assess the injury. Sherlock only met his eyes reluctantly. Anger and... concern were written there.

"What happened?" John asked, although he fancied he could imagine quite well that the two of them had got into it with each other. What interested him more was: why?

Sherlock's gaze skittered over to Victor again and hardened noticeably. But his long-time friend only laughed humourlessly.

"I knew it!" Victor declared and stood up, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and squaring his shoulders. "Did he finally talk you round?" he asked John smugly. John gave him a dark look.

"Shut up, Vic!" Sherlock butted in before John could say anything in response. "It's none of your business!"

"Oh? All of a sudden it's none of my business anymore? Strange... am I the only one who remembers me being used over and over as a sticking-plaster? As your fucktoy and dealer?" He shrugged in mock outrage. The cold smile didn't disappear from his lips for a second.

"Dealer?" John asked, irritated, looking from Victor to Sherlock. The latter bit down on his bottom lip furiously and avoided looking at John.

"Victor, I'm warning you..." Sherlock hissed, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

"He's a nice guy," Victor said, letting his gaze wander over John. "He doesn't deserve to be used and tossed aside, Sherlock. But you can't help it, can you?" He lowered his head and huffed resignedly. "How long... how many bloody years..."

"Hold on, what the hell do you mean 'dealer'?" John cut him off, since Sherlock obviously didn't intend to address the topic. "I thought you were clean?!" he asked in dismay, turning back to Sherlock. Worry and anger warred for balance in his voice.

"I _am_ clean!" Sherlock insisted, fixing John with a penetrating stare.

"How long's it been now? Almost a month?" Victor asked disparagingly, shrugging as if it were obvious that wasn't an adequate amount of time to count as clean.

John had no idea what to think of this display. Struggling with his anger, he pressed his lips together and curled his hands into fists. He strode briskly over to Victor and pointed at him with his index finger.

"You! Get out – _now_!" he barked, gesturing toward the door.

Victor raised his hands defensively and wrinkled his brow, smiling apologetically at the same time. "All right, calm down, Doc! But maybe you should still have a peek inside your boyfriend's pockets... See you round, Sherlock."

"Right..." Sherlock muttered, his eyes directed wearily into the distance.

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: [A little inspiration](http://benedikutokanbabatchi.tumblr.com/post/39919728977/j-your-gift-is-wrapped-in-red-s-best-birthday)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

"So," John started. His voice was unusually calm, but almost cutting, far from sounding relaxed. His eyebrows drawn together grimly, he regarded Sherlock, who was still standing next to the desk with his arms crossed over his chest, staring vaguely into the distance. "What the hell did Victor mean by that?"

"You don't trust me..." Sherlock said softly, unfolded his arms and leaned against the desk. He slowly raised his eyes to meet his friend's gaze head-on.

John threw his arms in the air, exasperated, and started to respond, but the words got stuck in his throat. How in the world did Sherlock get the idea that John didn't trust him? John, of all people. The man who followed him through the streets of London at any time without hesitation. To whom he'd entrusted his life on more than one occasion!

"I... I don't know how you..." John huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to collect himself before looking at Sherlock again and continuing: "Of course I trust you, Sherlock. But do you also trust _me_? It's not like you've been particularly forthcoming with me up to now! Not about your feelings, and not about this thing with Victor."

"I told you there's nothing going on between myself and Vic other than sex..."

" _Dealer_ , Sherlock... I'm not talking about your... arrangement – or whatever you want to call it – but about the fact that he provided you with drugs!" John blustered, gesturing wildly.

Sherlock stared at him, exhaled in annoyance, and crossed his arms again as if to protect himself. "So if I tell you I don't have any drugs in my pocket, would you believe me? In spite of Victor's... remark?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

John put his hands on his hips and examined his shoes, considering for a moment, then looked at his friend again and nodded. "Yes, of course."

Sherlock appeared to think about John's answer for a bit. The silence hung heavy in the air between them.

"And you?" John asked after a while. "Would you tell me the truth if you had drugs in your pocket?" John sincerely hoped that the whole thing would turn out to be a phantasm, instigated by a jealous ex-boyfriend who had nothing better to do than make life difficult for them.

A frustrated growl escaped Sherlock's throat as he drew a small plastic baggie out of his trouser pocket. It contained a teaspoonful of some white powder. Sherlock dropped it wordlessly onto the desk.

"What's that?" John asked unnecessarily.

"C17H21NO4," Sherlock replied coolly.

John ground his teeth impatiently. "I can see _what_ it is, but what does it mean?" he demanded.

"Victor was high when he got here... I took the stuff away from him," Sherlock explained, regarding John with mixed emotions. It was clear to see that he didn't hope for much understanding. His past stood between him and his credibility.

"All right... and... did he want to push it on you?" John asked patiently. He wanted to believe Sherlock, but at the moment he found it difficult. He'd seen people brought into A&E several times after overdosing. He was glad he didn't work there anymore. But even in general medical practise, there were often patients with a history of drug use who insisted they were in therapy and that they were clean. The truth always came out, at the latest when they did a blood test. John couldn't understand how Sherlock could keep putting his magnificent mind at risk over and over again anyway.

"No, but... he did offer it to me," Sherlock said and lifted a hand to postpone the objection John was about to make. "Yes, there's a difference! He only asked me once if I wanted any. No pressure, no attempt to convince me. I turned him down." Sherlock kept to himself the fact that he was a tiny bit proud of himself for having withstood the temptation. He was well aware that John certainly wouldn't view the victory with the same enthusiasm as he did.

"What were you going to do with it?" John asked sceptically, jerking his head toward the drugs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration at the ridiculous trick question. "I would have disposed of it, of course, John. What do you think?"

"And told me about it?"

This time Sherlock didn't answer, instead shrugging and evading John's eye. John rubbed his forehead, sighed quietly, and approached Sherlock. He gently laid a hand on his arm.

"It's fine. You don't need to tell me everything. I just don't want anything to happen to you," he said and gave him a conciliatory smile.

Sherlock met his gaze uncertainly, waiting to see if John was going to add anything. When he didn't speak any further, Sherlock cleared his throat and held his gaze for a long while.

"John, I do trust you... who else, if not you?" Sherlock asked, running a hand through John's hair and pressing his lips to John's forehead. John leaned into him a bit and closed his eyes. The sense that the topic of trust wasn't quite put to rest yet tugged unhappily at his stomach. He knew it was an issue that didn't just concern himself and his general mistrust towards other people – as his therapist had remarked many times – but Sherlock as well. In the course of his life, he'd seen people deceive each other more than often enough. They might trust each other, but they wouldn't stop at leaving each other in ignorance if they could avoid greater trouble in doing so. John didn't particularly like such contradictory logic, which was reflected so strongly in Sherlock's behaviour.

"Let's have something to eat..." he said, pulling away from Sherlock to reach for the plastic bag with the Chinese takeaway. "I brought dim sum."

He took out the two cardboard cartons, the little container of soy sauce, and the chopsticks, spread everything out on the coffee table, and sat down on the couch. Sherlock went into the kitchen, fetched a bottle of water and two glasses, and joined him. They ate the stuffed dumplings in silence while they watched the news.

"Are you worried about him?" John asked at some point.

Sherlock knew immediately that he had redirected the conversation back to Victor, not ready to let the topic go. Maybe – he thought – John was just trying to feel out how things were meant to continue between the two of them; whether Victor was something that would always stand between them. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek at the thought that there might be a kernel of truth in there somewhere; after all, there was so much connecting him to his friend of so many years. One of the two people in his life that could claim that title for themselves.

"Yes..." he admitted softly, staring at the flickering images on the television screen without really seeing them. He felt John's eyes on him as he tried to get inside Sherlock's head and decode his thoughts. A shudder ran through Sherlock, which he tried to cover up by reaching for his glass of water.

"Do you love him?" John asked, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. His voice a shade softer, a quantum less certain. Sherlock noted out of the corner of his eye that John unconsciously ran his fingers across his lips as if he wanted to wipe away the words he'd just spoken.

"Friendship and love are very close..." Sherlock began, setting the glass down and turning his head to look at John uncertainly. The few centimetres separating them felt unpleasantly cold and empty.

"Does that mean yes?"

"He means a lot to me... more than he's probably aware. But I'm not in love with him, John. There was a time when I loved him, but it was a long time ago." Sherlock drew one knee up onto the couch so he could turn his body to face John and touch his cheek, turning John's head so that he was looking at Sherlock. Something flared up briefly in his blue eyes before John lowered them, studiously inspecting the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

"You heard what Greg said at the hospital, didn't you?" he asked, his voice raw.

_The love of his life..._

John swallowed hard over the lump in his throat. He wanted to say something in response, nod, or shake his head. But it was as if he were paralysed. Only his heart hammered incessantly against his ribs. Impossible for Sherlock not to see or hear it. The thought of Sherlock's feelings for him scared him to death. Could he return them? Would he ever be able to give Sherlock what he wanted? What he expected? John was fairly certain by now that Victor loved Sherlock, even if it didn't look like he'd ever said it directly. John could only guess how long that had been going on. Maybe from the beginning. But that one-sided love hadn't ended well. Was that what lay in their future as well?

Sherlock scooted a little closer, so that his shin nestled up against John's thigh. One hand still on John's cheek, he placed the other behind him on the seat back of the couch, pulled John closer, and kissed him gently. His soft lips only exerted minimal pressure, and John felt his friend's shaky breath. He closed his eyes and returned the kiss, allowing Sherlock's lips to slip between his and tapping them tentatively with his tongue. He felt Sherlock's thumb caressing his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip. When he opened his eyes, he was met by the grey-blue of Sherlock's irises, which appeared nearly silver in the twilight of the room.

"I..." John began, only to pause nervously when his airways constricted in protest. He jolted as if struck by lightning when Sherlock's phone, set to silent mode, suddenly rattled and vibrated on the desk. Sherlock huffed and got up, went over to it, and scanned the screen. His eyebrows drew together grimly.

"Everything all right?" John asked in alarm.

"Yes..." Sherlock said, and dropped the iPhone into his trouser pocket. "Mycroft. It can wait..."

John merely nodded and rubbed his hands on his thighs. After hesitating a moment, he stood up, gathered the rubbish from the table, picked up the glasses, and went into the kitchen. He disposed of the plastic bag and the cartons and rinsed the glasses.

"Don't let me stop you if Mycroft has an assignment for you!" John called over into the living room. "I can't chance the house caving in on..." John jumped when two arms snaked around his torso. The glass slipped out of his hand and landed in the sink with a dull thud. "…me," John ended his sentence in a whisper.

Sighing softly, Sherlock cuddled up closer to him, burying his nose in John's hair. His fingers dug into John's skin, almost too hard, squeezing the air out of John's lungs. John laid one wet hand on Sherlock's arm, gently pressing down on his wrist in order to let him know everything was all right, that he was here and wasn't going to leave. He couldn't say why Sherlock should be afraid of that scenario just now. Hadn't John already made it clear to him that he wanted to be with Sherlock? Even if he couldn't define their relationship status more precisely, he did know that this thing between them was something they both wanted.

He sank back against Sherlock, rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and turned it so that his lips brushed Sherlock's neck. Sherlock leaned over John's face and kissed him tenderly. His hands relaxed, caressing John's torso, and John rotated within the embrace without breaking it so that he could pull Sherlock in close against his body. Soft lips, probing tongues, a heady prickling between them. John felt his body reacting to Sherlock. The anticipatory butterflies in his stomach, his frantically beating heart, every fibre of his being seemed to be gravitating toward him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and ran his fingers through the fractious curls he was so fond of.

Sherlock's hands skimmed incessantly across John's back and shoulders, over his jumper, feeling the ribs underneath. They pushed up underneath the material, meeting no resistance, under the shirt that lay between wool and skin, exploring every centimetre they could reach. John moaned softly against Sherlock's lips, clinging to him ardently. It was a wonderful feeling to be so close to him, to feel the natural counterweight of his body. He nibbled impatiently at those sensuous lips, dipped his tongue into the delectable mouth, and licked Sherlock's tongue with possessive fervour. When he inserted his leg between Sherlock's knees, Sherlock sighed breathlessly and his hips surged against John's in order to minimise the distance between them.

John enjoyed observing Sherlock's reactions as a shiver of pleasure ran through him and ended in John holding him more firmly. More covetously. He wanted to prove to Sherlock how serious this was to him, how much he wanted him. If not through his words then through his actions. He wanted to see how this oh-so-disciplined man lost control, how his desire won the upper hand over his brilliant mind. He wanted to make it clear to him that...

John paused when his eyes met Sherlock's. There was so much unfiltered emotion in them that it threatened to rend John's heart asunder. A sense of shame washed over him, blocking his system. He gasped helplessly for air, pressed his lips together, and averted his eyes to one side, troubled.

Sherlock laid his hand on John's cheek, stroking the skin with his thumb and kissing his face. "Stay with me tonight..." Sherlock said softly, resting his forehead against John's. A simple request. Not a question that allowed any objections, but not a demand either.

"Okay," John whispered, his voice raw and hoarse from the kisses and all the excitement. At some point, his fingers had become tangled in Sherlock's shirt, playing absently with the smooth material. He withdrew them, leaning back against the counter behind him and trying tentatively to put some distance between them.

Sherlock took the hint and moved away. "I'll wait for you," he said as he left the kitchen with a faint smile on his lips.

John kept watching the direction he'd gone in for a moment, listened to the sound of the bedroom door opening, then turned back to the sink to check the glass. Fortunately, it hadn't broken. He cleared it away and exhaled deeply. There was still a strange feeling vibrating inside him, the same one he'd been under the influence of since Sherlock had given him that odd look. It seemed to be so much more than simple lust. Was it love? For John?

Sherlock loved John... he'd suggested as much to Greg at any rate...

 _Friendship and love are very close_... John reflected. But would that be enough? Leaning his hands on the counter, he let his head drop down between his shoulders and took a cleansing breath. The emotions inside him were doing somersaults. He urgently tried to force the thoughts in his head to be silent. This eternal back and forth wasn't doing any good. Only time would tell how things would turn out between them.

After he'd collected himself for the most part, John went up the stairs to his room. He undressed, got into the shower in the adjacent bathroom, shaved, and cleaned his teeth. As he stood in front of the mirror, he took note of the sobering fact that his heart was still pounding as if he'd run a marathon. It pumped blood through his veins in a rampant uproar, making him aware of how nervous he was about the upcoming night. One glance at his alarm clock informed him it was only half nine. He slipped into his pyjama trousers and pulled a faded t-shirt over his head that he often wore to sleep.

On the way through the kitchen, he grabbed the open water bottle they'd started at dinner. When he set foot in the hallway leading to Sherlock's bedroom, he saw that the door was propped open. Warm light fanned out across the tiled floor.

John knocked lightly and pushed the door open. Sherlock lay in bed in his blue dressing gown, his legs crossed, reading a book. His tousled hair fell every which way across his face, as if a strong wind had blown through it. He raised his eyes and smiled when he saw John.

John stood indecisively in the doorway before entering the room and closing the door quietly behind him. He set the bottle down on the nightstand and sat on the bed, turning to Sherlock, who closed his book and laid it aside. He reached out his hand to indicate that John should come closer. John complied with the silent command, sliding all the way onto the bed so he could lean over Sherlock and kiss him. He slipped his arms underneath Sherlock's, held himself up on one elbow, and nestled in close as his free hand slid up to the collar of the dressing gown and underneath the material until it touched warm skin. He could feel the heart beating under his fingers. The heart beating just for him. Opening only to him, belonging to him. A smile that stood in odd contrast to the melancholy inside him tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He casually undid the silken belt holding the dressing gown together, letting the material glide away on both sides to unveil the body underneath. Sherlock's chest rose and fell rapidly as he watched John's actions. With reverence, John caressed the parts of Sherlock's body which had been revealed: his stomach, his hips, his thighs, following the path of the goose pimples which had appeared. The sound of Sherlock's stuttering breath as bold fingers moved across his cock and balls was music in John's ears. He lingered there a moment, coddling the sensitive parts, stroking and gently rubbing and watching with satisfaction as Sherlock's sex became stiffer and stiffer.

When he looked up, he was met with pupils widened in a feverish gaze. His lips slightly parted and a touch of red on his cheeks, Sherlock was observing every little thing that John did. John leaned over Sherlock again so that only a small amount of space separated their faces, and gazed deep into his eyes.

"Kiss me..." he demanded, his voice raw.

Sherlock complied immediately, stretching his neck to press his mouth to John's, his tongue darting out to moisten John's lips and capturing them with his teeth. With his right hand behind John's back, he nudged John closer to his supine body while his left hand pressed down on the back of John's neck so that he could deepen the kiss. John sighed languorously. Heat flowed through him, filling him up and washing away all of his thoughts.

He felt Sherlock pushing up his t-shirt so he could run his hands across John's back unimpeded. John quickly reached up over his shoulder, grasped the material, and drew the shirt over his head before tossing it carelessly onto the floor and reapplying himself to Sherlock's lips. Fingers buried themselves in John's hair, his skin, felt their way across his body. Traced every curve and angle. Sherlock ended up on top of him. Kisses without end, gentle bites and the damp trail from a tongue branded John from head to toe. His lips stung, as did his cheeks and the places where teeth had caught him a little too hard. A prickly-sweet pain.

He sighed in relief when Sherlock removed the bothersome pyjama trousers from his legs and threw them off the bed along with the dressing gown. John stretched beseechingly toward Sherlock, seeking any kind of contact whatsoever, writhing under his hands and lips. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips, lifting his pelvis with clear intent and rubbing his upright cock against Sherlock's in silent demand, enjoying the feeling of their erections touching.

When Sherlock seized his wrists and held them down on the mattress, John let out a small gasp. It scared him a little that he was so aroused by Sherlock taking control. John bit down unconsciously on his bottom lip and held his breath. It was just that he was so taken by the look Sherlock gave him as he examined John, seeming to see both through him and inside him.

"Breathe..." Sherlock ordered him, gentle but firm.

John sucked in air and felt some of his tension release. The arousal that had built up inside him was almost driving him mad. Words formed on his tongue that he didn't understand, that didn't make any sense yet threatened to drop like pearls from his lips. His entire body was vibrating with lust and desire. A desire over which he no longer had even a modicum of control.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked with that sonorous bass tone that echoed so pleasantly in John's gut.

John's eyes flickered back and forth between Sherlock's, looking for something.

_You._

_You!_

_Oh, please..._

"Damn it, Sherlock... please..." It was barely a hoarse whisper that found its way past John's lips, accompanied by an electrified shudder running down his spine.

Sherlock leaned over John and kissed him tenderly. When he straightened up again, he let go of John's wrists, opened the nightstand drawer, and took out a condom and a tube of lubricant gel. Without taking his eyes off John, he tore open the packet and removed the prophylactic so he could unroll it over his erection.

John watched him breathlessly, trying to concentrate on breathing at the same time, as his lungs threatened to refuse to function if he didn't focus his attention on them. He sighed softly when Sherlock grasped the backs of his knees and dragged him closer, firmly pressing his legs further apart.

Exposed and vulnerable. Hungry eyes took in every part of his body that had been revealed. Sherlock squeezed some of the lube onto his fingers and rubbed it gently around on John's cock while the fingers of his other hand caressed John's taut testicles, fondling the wrinkled skin. He slowly felt his way down to John's hole, repeatedly stroking his perineum until John let out a quiet whimper. Only then did Sherlock allow two of his fingers to slide into John's quivering body.

John arched his back, reared up, and squeezed his eyes shut. It took an effort to control the shaking that raced through his body. After just a few moments, he hungrily tilted into the fingers, softly moaning syllables devoid of meaning. He emphatically grabbed Sherlock's hand which had closed around his erection, panting as he interrupted the stimulation. The slope of his arousal was climbing too steeply; he'd been itching to let himself fall for too long.

Sherlock paused, completely derailed from his actions, and looked down at John. His face was turned away, his cheeks were red, sweaty strands of hair stuck to his temple and forehead, his skin gleamed with sweat, and barely restrained lust was reflected in his expression: Sherlock was deeply moved. Being able to give him so much pleasure and bliss, knowing that he – Sherlock – was responsible for it, made his heart soar. Right at that moment, he wanted to do everything for John, everything, as long as he could make him happy. It had never before seemed so important to him to make another person happy.

"Sherlock..." John gasped, his internal muscles tensing as if to draw the fingers deeper inside him. He tugged impatiently at Sherlock's arm to get him to come closer.

Sherlock withdrew his fingers with a lascivious hiss and scooted in as close as he could to John's hips. He stabilised his own erection and carefully pressed the head against John's hole. The red-hot confines gave way just enough to enclose him.

John whimpered softly, fully aware of each and every muscle, every bit of skin stretching around Sherlock. He groaned and threw his head back, then moaned from deep in his throat when Sherlock was finally buried all the way inside him. Seeking something to anchor himself, he dug his fingers into the arms which were pressing into the mattress on either side of him.

"Come here," John murmured and pulled Sherlock onto him, deeper into him. He immediately slung his arms around Sherlock, clawing into him, and kissed him hungrily.

Overwhelmed by the brashness of their union, Sherlock deepened the kiss as much as he could. He clung to John, utterly captivated. The heat of their bodies, the fire between them, was almost unendurable, and yet so wonderful that he thought he was going to fly apart. He felt the tension slowly draining out of John as he submitted and opened up. Sherlock slowly began to move his hips, letting them rotate gently as he enjoyed the incredible tightness surrounding him.

He affectionately brushed the damp hair off John's forehead, running his fingers down John's cheek, his jaw, across his lips, which he promptly nuzzled, then down his neck to his shoulder. He slid one arm under John's head, kissed him again, and licked the lust-filled sigh from his flushed lips, tenderly plucking at the tender skin with his teeth and sharing their breath.

Every time their eyes met in the midst of the barely controlled gestures of their ecstasy, John felt something twinge inside him, followed immediately by a tingling heat flowing through his body. He couldn't identify the sensation, couldn't evaluate it, but that didn't matter at the moment. He was enjoying their union beyond words, an incredible whirlpool of emotions that seemed to seep deeper and deeper into his soul, even as it drove his arousal higher and higher.

Pretty soon, John felt as if he could no longer differentiate between inside and outside. His completely over stimulated nerves made him feel like he was falling apart, disintegrating. Seeking something to keep him grounded, he clawed into cloth, skin, hair, when he climaxed with a loud moan, completely losing his sense of orientation for several seconds. The hand around his erection didn't let go, driving him on and on until he was about to beg for mercy. Trembling, he turned his head to the side and buried his face in the crook of his arm, his hand extended uselessly upward. Breathless, he felt Sherlock still moving inside him, penetrating deep inside until he paused, quivering. His breath caught and John felt Sherlock's erection pulsing as he came. Panting and groaning, he ejaculated inside John, reached for his fingers, and interlaced them with his. Breathing hard, he dropped kisses across John's knuckles, both of them still shaken by tiny aftershocks.

Sherlock nuzzled John's neck, exhausted, and inhaled his scent deeply. John's free hand eventually found its way into the brown curls and held onto Sherlock hard – or as hard as he could manage. His head was completely empty. All he could feel was the other body in his arms, the heat, the sweat; he became aware of an intoxicating aroma mixing with his, carving itself out an irrevocable place in his memory.

After a while, Sherlock raised his head and looked at John point-blank, both assessing and a little insecure. He leaned his forehead against John's and stroked his cheek, kissed him a few times, and finally let him go with reluctance.

His muscles protesting, he slid out of John's body, slid over to lie beside John, and removed the condom. He awkwardly fished for the comforter, covered them both up, and cuddled up against John. He muttered something about serotonin and stars, but John couldn't understand what it was supposed to mean. His thoughts were too diffuse, too far removed from reality. All he felt was fingertips wandering across his warm skin. Sherlock fell silent once more and gazed at him for a long time, kissed him, then looked away again.

John's head was buzzing. He wanted to say something. Something significant, something meaningful. Wanted to reassure Sherlock that he'd always be here with him, that he wanted to stay with him. That he would protect him with everything in his power. That he'd give his life for him, without hesitation. That he'd never felt so much for anyone before. That he didn't think he would ever be able to feel this for anyone again.

That he loved him...

 

+++

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: C17H21NO4 is cocaine, of course!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John dozed, ensconced in a pleasant warmth. It felt good. Peaceful. Cosy. Happy. It was comforting to know that Sherlock lay beside him. The realisation of what he felt for this man still echoed blissfully inside him. They belonged together; John had become more certain of that than ever in the past few hours. To be honest, it had been clear for a long time, but they had both needed to get past a lot in order to admit that fact. The fear of losing Sherlock had paralysed John, nearly denying him the wonderful experience of being together with him.

Now all he needed to do was tell Sherlock. He was sure that Sherlock had deduced his true feelings long ago – probably longer than John could even guess. But he should know that John was ready to confess them openly now. No holds barred. That they would be together if Sherlock still wanted it.

John sighed and turned onto his back to stretch his legs and well-used muscles, luxuriating in the satisfactory buzzing in his body. He felt the mattress move next to him and cracked open his eyes, only to see Sherlock's smiling face hovering over him.

"Tired, hm?" Sherlock said, caressing John's cheek. John promptly nuzzled into the hand and left a kiss there before responding.

"A little... what time is it?" he asked, grimacing when he blinked into the light of the lamp on the nightstand.

"Just after eleven," Sherlock said and sat up. "I'm going to have a shower."

John merely grunted in acknowledgment and watched as Sherlock got up, walked around the bed, and opened the door to the bathroom. When John heard the water running, he closed his eyes again. His thoughts wandered to the man in the shower, the warm water running down his body, the wet curls that would be dangling in his face. John's tongue peeped out, moistening his dry lips. The urge was strong to follow Sherlock and push him up against the wet tiles, but the exhaustion in his bones and the warmth of the bed were stronger.

He was just about to drift off to sleep again when an alert on Sherlock's phone went off, dragging him back. Grumbling, he propped himself up on his elbows and glanced at the nightstand, but couldn't see the iPhone. It was probably still in Sherlock's trousers, John realised, and sank back down onto the sheets.

_Mycroft again? Clients likely wouldn't be leaving messages at this time of night..._ John thought grumpily. _Maybe it's important..._ _maybe he needs help..._

Still half-asleep, John struggled into a sitting position and scanned the room for Sherlock's trousers. He discovered them on a chair next to the window, so he got up and shuffled over to get out the phone. He just wanted to quickly check whether the message was from Sherlock's older brother, or whether it might really be from a client. If so, it could wait until Sherlock was out of the shower. John opened the messaging app with a couple of clicks.

The list of numbers for the incoming messages appeared. The last three messages were from _M_. Before that were several numbers without names, which probably belonged to potential clients and therefore hadn't been saved by Sherlock. Since the detective had published his personal phone number on his web page, John wasn't surprised to see so many different contacts. Still, it did puzzle him that Sherlock's own brother was saved under such an impersonal abbreviation. John opened the message.

_[Today, 15 Jun 2012]: Missing someone?_

John frowned in bewilderment. What was that supposed to mean? It looked like Mycroft was playing some ridiculous game with Sherlock, or else they were teasing each other with riddles in order to prove once more which of them was the more clever Holmes. John couldn't understand why the two of them needed to constantly compete with each other. Still, he was curious whether he could figure out what it was about this time. He opened the previous message from _M_ , which had come in shortly after dinner.

_[Today, 15 Jun 2012]: Do you think your friends would like to play hide-and-seek with us? I'm sure John would have fun!_

John stared at the lines as if in a trance, reading them over and over. His fingers shaking, he opened the other, earlier message from _M_ , which had arrived the day before.

_[Th, 14 Jun 2012]: The boys cost me a pretty penny. Sorry, I couldn't let John get away with it without a little payback!_

He recalled the court case. The boys...? What the hell was going on? Did Mycroft have something to do with the outcome of the case? Did this message mean that he was in cahoots with Philip, Jeff, and Paige? John knew that Mycroft had a hand in just about everywhere, but did that include the attack on John and the results of the hearing? He simply couldn't imagine that, no matter how hard he tried. What reason would Mycroft have to ruin things for him like that?

John nervously clicked back to the inbox and scrolled through the list, trying to find some explanation. Detective Inspector Lestrade showed up twice amidst all the unfamiliar numbers: messages Sherlock had received in the last two weeks. In the period before that, there were several from Sergeant Donovan and Detective Inspector Dimmock.

John paused for a moment when he stumbled across one more name. His thumb trembled uncontrollably over the screen, and he felt himself becoming sicker and sicker as panic mixed with adrenaline and was pumped through his veins with every frantic beat of his heart. _Mycroft Holmes_. Every ounce of warmth seeped out of his body, and he couldn't breathe. Ice-cold hands seemed to be reaching for his heart, latching on with their nails and holding it in a firm grip.

John ground his teeth together so hard that it hurt. His head was utterly devoid of thought, as if frozen. There was just one small part that still sought desperately for a clue that this was all some kind of bad joke, that it wasn't... He found two more messages from _M_ which had arrived in short succession. John couldn't say exactly when, but it must have been around the time when Greg had been found.

He tapped the screen numbly.

_[Wed., 23 May 2012]: Daddy's bored! Let's play, Sherlock!_

And the last – actually the first – message read:

_[Wed., 23 May 2012]: Hi, darling! Did you miss me?_

It was like being punched in the gut. John was able to make it to the bed just in time before his knees gave out. All of the energy drained out of his body like the air from a balloon. A high-pitched tone rang in his ears, so loud that it drowned out every other sound.

_Moriarty_. M for Moriarty... it had to be!

John dropped the iPhone onto the bed and buried his face in his hands. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and goose pimples appeared on his arms and legs. So that bloody madman was really back, had forced his way into their lives again and was going to try to... Furious, John clenched his hands into fists and pounded his bare thighs.

"John?!" His friend's voice was tinged with horror. John struggled to take a breath, gasping, and tried to catch Sherlock's eye, seeking an explanation. Seeking in vain for a confirmation that this was all just a bad joke. Something! Anything that would prevent him from losing his mind. Sherlock crouched down in front of him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and fixed John with a worried look. His eyes flicked over to the phone lying on the bed, then back to his friend. Something changed in his face. A poorly suppressed flutter of panic.

_Of course_ , John thought, _he's known it for a while... and didn't tell me anything..._

"Why?" John croaked, his voice flat.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but just took a breath before closing it again. It didn't often happen that Sherlock Holmes was caught speechless. John giggled hysterically and covered his face with his hands again. He couldn't believe any of this, couldn't comprehend it. He shook his head in resignation and took deep breaths until his nerves slowly calmed. Only then did he look at Sherlock, who was still hunkered down in front of him.

"So it is Moriarty," John declared matter-of-factly.

Sherlock stood up and nodded once. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me anything?" John asked. His knees still felt like jelly – unreliable – so he remained seated and looked up at Sherlock.

"To protect you... There weren't any indications of what Moriarty had planned up to now. I was – am – doomed to wait until he finally plays ball with me!

John laughed, frustrated. " _Plays_... yeah, that's the right word all right..."

Sherlock's posture stiffened markedly and he crossed his arms protectively over his chest. "None of this is fun for me, John!" he barked indignantly.

John shook his head. He felt stable enough to stand up now, gather up his clothes from the floor, and get dressed. After doing that, he grabbed the water bottle from the nightstand, unscrewed the lid, and drank from it greedily to get rid of the dry feeling in his throat. When he set the bottle back down, he pointed at the phone with his free hand.

"You got another message from him – that's the only reason it came to my attention..." John said and waited while Sherlock reached for his phone and scrolled through the inbox until he got to the latest message. He stared at the device, but seemed to be looking straight through it. His eyes hastily flickered back and forth between invisible points, as if he were mentally evaluating and analysing the contents.

_Missing someone?_

His lips formed the words without his voice transposing them. Then he stopped suddenly, virtually frozen for several long seconds. John frowned in alarm.

"Damn it! DAMN IT!" Sherlock cried and grabbed his dressing gown. He stormed past John out of the room and down the hall.

John followed him down the stairs to the ground floor and watched with a combination of bewilderment and concern as Sherlock hammered on their landlady's door.

"Mrs Hudson!" he roared several times, but there was no sound to be heard on the other side. After a few moments, Sherlock whirled around and stormed back up the stairs. "I'm getting the spare key. Get dressed!"

John nodded once and ran upstairs as well, albeit to the second floor, where he went into his room and put on a pair of jeans and shoes as fast as he could. He grabbed a t-shirt and a button-down and put them both on as he went back downstairs, in order to save time. Sherlock came down the stairs just a few seconds later, buttoning his trousers and shoving his arms into the sleeves of a black shirt before he reached into his pocket and took out a key. The lock to 221A clicked open, allowing the two men access to Mrs Hudson's little flat.

Sherlock stopped as if rooted to the spot, letting his eyes wander over every detail of the familiar furnishings, explicitly looking for any changes. Meanwhile, John pushed past him and went through the kitchen into the living room, then over to the old lady's bedroom door, turning on lights as he went. He knocked then opened the door after a brief hesitation to stick his head through the crack. The room was empty, the bed untouched. John swallowed hard. He hurried back to Sherlock, who now stood in the kitchen, where he was continuing his search for clues.

"Nothing. She's not here... do you think he was here and took her with him?" John asked, worried.

But he didn't receive an answer. Instead, Sherlock took a pair of plastic gloves out of his trouser pocket, pulled them on, and ran his fingers over a large, plump brown envelope that lay on the table. He lifted it up and examined the wax seal holding it closed. He carefully removed it, taking care not to break it, and drew a book out of the envelope. He turned it over, keeping a close eye on it, opened it, and flipped through the pages to see if there was anything stuck between them. He then closed it again with a sigh and put it back down on the table before glancing over at John.

"Yes... it looks that way. And not only that. This book... It confirms that Moriarty also had something to do with Greg's abduction... Moriarty and Sebastian Moran are definitely working together," Sherlock concluded and pushed the book across the table so that John could take a look at it. _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ , it said in cursive letters on the yellow binding. John didn't touch it.

"What makes you think that?" he asked instead.

Sherlock sighed wearily. "The same book was in Greg's flat after his disappearance. Someone had left it there several days later, along with a small clue."

"I was in the flat too and didn't notice anything..." John muttered, but Sherlock waved off his objection.

"That was before Moriarty's accomplice was there. Even you would have noticed the clue right away. It was insultingly obvious!" Sherlock declared in that typical tone of voice which never failed to drive the officers from the Yard up the wall. When Sherlock noticed John's irritated look, he cleared his throat quickly and added an explanation: "The refrigerator was full of lamb's lettuce, also known as Rapunzel. Grimm's fairy tales, Rapunzel – the connection can't be dismissed out of hand. Donovan said I was mad, but she simply didn't realise that the greens couldn't have been from Greg, since they weren't wrapped in plastic and were still fresh even though several days had passed. Therefore, they were intentionally left in the flat later on."

"Ah-ha," John commented, trying not to let the doubt show on his face too strongly. "And so how did you come up with the cellar where you found him?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance because John still didn't get the facts or draw any logical conclusions. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" he quoted, as if that explained everything. "You should read more, John... Rapunzel's hair was several metres long. Her prince climbed up it to visit her in the tower. The clues in this context are therefore hair and tower. Tower of London? Unlikely, as it's too public. What about street names? Dimmock took his team over to Great Tower Street and checked out all of the buildings there while Donovan and I paid a visit to the only hairdresser operating under the name of Rapunzel near High Barnet – where we eventually found Greg in a cellar," Sherlock summarised, shrugging as if it hadn't been anything special.

"I see," John replied after a while. "And why didn't you tell me about it earlier?" he demanded. "You kept me in the dark this whole time! Don't you think I have a certain personal interest, particularly in this case?!"

Sherlock looked off to the side unhappily. It was still unpleasant for him to have to admit that he hadn't recognised the urgency of the case at first, and had therefore ignored it. That only John's concern for his lover and the concomitant need to protect John had changed his mind.

"I apologise..." he said softly. "You were in such a bad way that it would have hit you hard if I'd been wrong. I didn't want that..." Sherlock confessed.

John came closer to his friend and touched him on the arm. "It's all right. It all turned out well thanks to you..." John said to placate him and made a sweeping gesture with one hand. "Any ideas about all this?"

Sherlock turned around in a circle, taking in the details of the kitchen again, before going back out into the hall with John following. With a few flicks of his wrist, he scanned the coats Mrs Hudson had hanging on the hooks on the wall. Underneath a plum-coloured felt jacket which must have hung past the old lady's hips, there was a much longer coat. Despite its bold hue, most people still would have overlooked it at first glance. Sherlock took down the burgundy article and held it out to John with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Have you ever seen Mrs Hudson in this coat?"

John thought hard, although he was sure his friend meant the question rhetorically. He shook his head and put his hands on his hips. "So you think it's related to a fairy tale?"

"Obviously. Red Riding Hood – of course," Sherlock asserted and felt around in the folds of the material, running his hands over the lining and into the pockets and sleeves, searching for additional clues. Not finding anything, he returned the coat to the hook.

"That's it? A book of fairy tales and this coat, and you're supposed to figure out what Moriarty has planned? Why does he even give you clues? He's apparently expecting you to solve the case!" John said. Not that he actually wanted to know what went on inside James Moriarty's sick mind, but if they had a chance to save Mrs Hudson before anything happened to her like what had happened to Greg... they should make use of that opportunity.

"It's a test. He wants to see if he can beat me," Sherlock replied. The gleam in his eyes bothered John, setting off an unpleasant twinge in his stomach. He saw that Sherlock was teetering between concern for Mrs Hudson and an off-putting enthusiasm, and he was afraid the latter was going to win. And one more thing made the situation even more unpleasant for him.

"I read the messages, Sherlock. He's after your friends... Greg, Mrs Hudson, me of course... possibly Victor..." John said. "We should warn him."

Sherlock made a sound of agreement, reached for his mobile phone, and waited tensely until someone picked up on the other end. To John's surprise, he'd rung a different person than John had expected.

"Lestrade? I need you. Mrs Hudson's been abducted and I'm afraid her life is in danger. Come to Baker Street as fast as you can. Bring someone from forensics!" Without waiting for a response, Sherlock ended the call and walked out of the flat to go up to the first floor. John followed him, leaving Mrs Hudson's door standing open.

When John came into the living room, Sherlock was already sitting in front of his laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard. John huffed and went over to him to pick up the iPhone lying on the desk next to the laptop. He scrolled through the list of contacts until he got to Victor's number, copied it into his own phone, and wrote a text. If Sherlock didn't think it was necessary to warn his friend, then John would have to do it.

_This is John. You might be in danger. Get in touch with Sherlock or me asap. Thanks._

He pressed 'send' and walked around the desk to sit down, conscientiously ignoring Sherlock's strange sidelong glance. Instead, he asked if there was anything he could do to help.

"What are we looking for, Sherlock?" John asked, running a hand down his worried face. He hoped and prayed that nothing bad had happened to their landlady.

"Do you know Little Red Riding Hood?"

"That was the story about the girl who visited her grandmother in the woods, right? The one... with the wolf?" John answered, his throat tightening. Sherlock nodded without looking up from his screen, still busy gathering information.

"Correct. But there are no wolves in the London Zoo. The nearest zoo with wolves is thirty miles north of here, in the city of Dunstable in Bedfordshire. That's a good hour by car. Mrs Hudson can't be gone more than five hours." Sherlock paused in the middle of his explanation and banged his hand down loudly on the desk, making John startle and flinch. John stared at him and saw the angry flames in Sherlock's eyes, the barely suppressed fury.

"How could this happen... how in the world... why didn't I notice...?" Sherlock whispered to himself.

"Sherlock... it's not your fault. You've seen Moriarty in action before – he won't stop at anything or anyone! And he's clearly trying to hurt you..." John said in a gentle voice, folding his hands on top of the desk.

Sherlock's expression softened. His eyes flickered to John's and held fast. Fear and insecurity were clearly visible in them for a fraction of a second. John sighed, a little relieved that Mrs Hudson meant so much to Sherlock and that he was going to move heaven and earth to save her. He got up, went to stand behind Sherlock, and put his arms around his neck, burying his nose in the still damp curls just for a moment.

When Greg and the other officer finally made their way to Baker Street, Sherlock explained once more what he'd figured out about the case thus far. They agreed to drive to Dunstable with Greg and get in contact with the local constabulary on the way in order to save as much time as possible.

John and Sherlock sat in the back of Greg's car while the Detective Inspector drove and carried on a phone conversation at the same time. He could have left that part to Sherlock, of course, but he didn't want to risk having to work with a bunch of disgruntled police officers because Sherlock had struck the wrong nerve with them as usual. He hadn't failed to notice that Sherlock was much more irritable than normal.

"Okay," Greg said once he'd ended the call and let his phone fall into his lap. "I hope this all works out... The zoo is huge. They're not set up for a spur-of-the-moment mission like this up there." Greg glanced back and forth between the street and the two men in his rear-view mirror.

John took out his phone and checked whether Victor had responded to him yet. But his inbox was empty. A brief shake of his head in Sherlock's direction was all that was necessary to share the information.

They fell silent for a while, listening to the hissing of the tyres on the asphalt, the low strains of a late-night radio show, and the night passing by them outside. John yawned and looked out the window. The exhaustion was returning all of a sudden now that the adrenaline had faded, tugging powerfully on his eyelids. Sherlock's hand descended on top of his and squeezed it gently, as if to encourage him to hold out just a little longer.

Greg, who had witnessed the moment of affection, snorted a bit. The corners of his mouth twitched disapprovingly, in a parody of a smile.

"What?" Sherlock asked brusquely into the front seat.

John looked back and forth between the two of them, bewildered.

"Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing at all," Greg responded as neutrally as possible.

"Do you regret your choice already?" Sherlock's voice dripped with scorn. He didn't even try to hide it.

"Sherlock..." John growled, suddenly wide awake again.

"Did you honestly expect it would be different this time, Greg? She didn't love you before, why should she now all of a sudden?" Sherlock asked coolly.

John's stomach clenched. Lestrade's reunion obviously hadn't even lasted two weeks. John sucked his lower lip in between his teeth and bit down on the soft flesh. The rancour in Sherlock's statement turned his stomach. Of course he'd been hurt by the way things had developed between himself and Greg, but John hadn't had the heart to really get angry at him. Not after everything that had happened. Not after he'd seen how much Greg still loved his ex-wife. Or had loved her.

"Let it go, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound conciliatory.

"You only wanted to make sure I knew that you're together now, didn't you, Sherlock? To show me I messed up any chance I had with John?" Greg said and shrugged. "It's not like I ever really had a chance against you... even if it did look like it."

John frowned grimly. Did the two of them even realise he was sitting right here in the car with them? What was this show they were putting on? This wasn't a game, with him some kind of trophy!

"Would you shut up! The both of you!" he barked, turning away to look out the window and ignore the two posturing alphas. He would have loved to respond to Greg's statement in particular. To have told him how wrong he was. But this was definitely not the time or place. In addition, he couldn't say anymore whether what he'd felt for Greg had really run that deep. His feelings for Sherlock were completely different, on another level altogether. Rooted so deeply inside him that he hadn't even noticed them for a very long time. John put his hand unconsciously over his heart, digging his fingers into the material there.

The hour it took them to get there was barely enough for Whipsnade Zoo to organise zookeepers who were able to accompany the policeman and the two civilians into the huge enclosure, where not only wolves but also lynxes, brown bears, and other wild animals were kept in their natural habitat. This special feature of the largest zoo in Great Britain made the undertaking much more difficult. The representative of the zoo's board of directors, a fiftysomething man with grey hair and a red moustache, wearing a pyjama shirt under his lightweight suit jacket, was in high dudgeon. When the three men arrived after having been met at the car park, he was already arguing with several officers in front of the staff entrance to the enclosure.

Greg tried to defuse the tense atmosphere a bit by explaining briefly that a woman's life was in danger and that she was in all likelihood being held somewhere on the grounds. The director gave in with a rather unhappy expression and sent a team through the barrier consisting of three zoo employees, four police officers from Dunstable, Sherlock, Greg, and John. The zookeepers and officers were armed with tranquiliser guns and police whistles in order to keep the enclosure's inhabitants at a distance. It was more likely that they would show little interest in the noisy humans, however, and keep away from the potential danger.

John's pulse was racing. Despite being surrounded by armed men and women, he felt exposed and unprotected in the darkness, which their torches could only penetrate slightly. It wasn't the wolves or bears that scared him, but the bastard who was behind this whole affair. Of course the assumption was that Moriarty was long gone by now – if he'd even gone to the trouble of coming here himself – but that didn't diminish the sensation of being watched from the trees and bushes.

They came closer and closer to the wolves' territory and heard the animals excitedly whining and growling in a vain attempt to protect their home from the invaders. But the ear-splitting trilling of the police whistles kept them at a respectful distance. Dozens of pairs of yellow eyes glowed in the darkness, keeping attentive watch over the humans' every step. Then the pack faded into the background. All of the animals except for one. A grey-white wolf stood with its head lowered and ears back near an oak tree. Its retracted jowls revealed a row of sharp teeth, and its eyes reflected the torches' light back as gold.

"It's not real," Sherlock declared. In contrast to the animals in the bushes and tall grass, this wolf wasn't making a sound. The entire team circled around the motionless figure, regarding it in bewilderment. John took one of the torches and held it up to illuminate Sherlock, who was looking for clues with gloved hands.

"It's stuffed..." Greg said, harvesting a sarcastic look from Sherlock, as if the conclusion hadn't been obvious. "Say, that reminds me..." Without giving Sherlock another look, Greg took his mobile phone out of his pocket and swiped at it until he'd found what he was looking for. He held the device up triumphantly, screen facing out toward the others.

"Here! A stuffed arctic wolf... was reported stolen yesterday. Check out the picture. This has got to be it!"

John stepped closer to the phone and compared the image with the animal standing between them, eventually confirming the assumption.

"We obviously haven't come to the end point yet, however..." Sherlock sighed and pulled something out of the animal's mouth. He held up the rectangular item so the light shined on it.

It was a pink MP3 player.

 

+++

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [hair salon](http://www.rapunzelsalon.co.uk) really does exist, but of course I made up the cellar.
> 
> The [zoo](https://www.zsl.org/zsl-whipsnade-zoo/exhibits/wild-wild-whipsnade) is also real   
> (But I've never been there and the description comes from my imagination and Google maps!)
> 
> The [stuffed arctic wolf](http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/aug/19/police-seek-stuffed-arctic-wolf-london-flat-chelsea) too. The article is from 2015 and this story takes place in 2012, but I'm going to call it artistic license. ;)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, I can barely move my hands at the moment, so even posting this chapter became a problem =/
> 
> +++
> 
> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

Sun dark on darker streets  
It's violent times for weary feet  
Carjackers and bullet showers  
A yellow sign, too many fools in power

But see, I will be gone by morning  
My dear friend, I lost a fight  
Forget me, I wash my hands  
In your grey slowing night  
Coming down from darkened heights  
I taste the Thames with my cycle lights  
By saint Paul's by Big Ben  
By God's name I repent

But see, I will be gone by morning  
My dear, London goodnight  
Forget me, I wash myself  
In your grey river light

Sherlock turned off the song and looked up at John, who had his eyebrows furrowed in thought. Greg, standing next to the doctor with a pinched expression, ran his palm down his face. The sound of police whistles shattered the night once more as the officers and zookeepers resumed their previous action to keep the wolves at bay.

"So she's not here..." John said. His voice was tinged with a concern which crept ice-cold into his gut, making him shiver. His fear for Mrs Hudson was growing with every passing second.

"No," Sherlock agreed. "We need to get back. Now."

They quickly left the wildlife area of Whipsnade Zoo as Greg explained the situation to the Dunstable police, assuring them that he'd be in touch as soon as they'd gathered more information. He also asked them to apologise to the board of directors for all the trouble.

Once they were at the car park, Greg turned to Sherlock. "Now what? Any ideas?" he asked, just a tad curtly. The tension and exhaustion were dragging on his nerves, and the conversation they'd had earlier in the car was also eating at him.

"A few..." Sherlock replied and got into Greg's car.

As soon as they'd left the zoo grounds and were back on the motorway, Sherlock turned the MP3 player on. Other than the one song, there was nothing on the device he'd pulled from the mouth of the stuffed wolf. They listened to the lyrics again. Sherlock paused the song in the middle of the refrain.

"What time is it?"

John checked his mobile phone, noting at the same time that there still wasn't any response from Victor. "Quarter to two..."

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible to himself, passed the MP3 player to John, and took his iPhone out of his pocket. He rapidly called up several websites, scanning the screen until he'd found the information he was looking for.

"We don't have much time left, I'm afraid..." he said and turned the phone around so that John could see it. It showed a weather map including sunrise and sunset times. The sunrise for that day was supposed to be at 4:42 a.m.

John looked at Sherlock, his eyes wide. "What... does that mean?" he asked, although he could imagine what the answer was.

"In the song, it says, 'I will be gone by morning'. I'm afraid that's a clue that we only have until sunrise to find Mrs Hudson... a kind of countdown..." Sherlock explained as neutrally as possible, but the underlying anger in his voice broke through.

"Any idea where we might find her?" Greg asked, sounding rather beleaguered himself.

Sherlock pushed the button on the MP3 player in John's hand to start the song up again, only to pause it a moment later.

"There are three places mentioned in the song: the Thames, Big Ben, and St Paul's... we should start there," Sherlock declared, took the player back from John, and stowed it in his trouser pocket. "The Thames will pose the greatest difficulty, as it runs all the way through London... I think we should concentrate on the stretch between Big Ben and St Paul's. We'll go in three teams in order to save time..." he added, trying to catch Greg's eye in the rear-view mirror.

Greg nodded obediently and reached for his phone, pressing one of the quick-dial buttons to contact Scotland Yard directly. The conversation almost ended in a row, as it was far from easy to put together three teams that were prepared to face an unknown danger at this time of night. There was simply too little information about what to expect.

John rubbed his hands on his thighs anxiously. The constant ups and downs between adrenaline, worry, and exhaustion were getting to him. "What..." he started, only to bite his lip. The words didn't seem to want to come out of his mouth. Sherlock gave him a questioning look, and John took a deep breath before continuing: "What if she's not at any of the three locations?"

"I don't know," Sherlock confessed and let his gaze drift out the window. Darkness and the cones of light from the streetlamps alternated at regular intervals outside. There were only a handful of cars on the street. Sherlock shook his head, troubled.

"Who is this guy, Sherlock? Why Mrs Hudson? What are his intentions?" Greg asked from the front seat, his eyes doggedly fixed on the road.

"He's picking on people who are close to me..."

"Your friends," John corrected him. "First Greg, now Mrs Hudson."

"Me?" Greg asked incredulously, glancing into the rear-view mirror in order to give the men on the back seat an assessing look. "What do I have to do with this?"

John briefly summarised for him Sherlock's deduction about the book of fairy tales, and how it was linked to the kidnappings of both Greg and Mrs Hudson. He saw how the Detective Inspector gripped the steering wheel harder and harder, until his knuckles stood out white. John would have liked very much to know what was going on in the other man's head. Was he surprised to be considered a friend of Sherlock's? Or perhaps horrified that he'd been dragged into this situation on Sherlock's account? After all, he'd had to withstand several days of hellish torture which had apparently only served the purpose of luring Sherlock out into the open. Whatever it was, Greg kept it to himself.

"John..." Greg's low voice tore John away from his thoughts. He met Greg's eyes in the mirror before he looked back at the street. He couldn't dismiss the concern he saw there so easily. Greg had obviously figured out that John was on Moriarty's hit list too, and as such that he could be surprised by him or his henchmen at any time. That they needed to catch this madman before anything worse happened. All of these considerations were reflected in Greg's expression.

"I know..." John said simply. At the moment, he didn't want to think about what might be in store for him. Their focus had to be on finding Mrs Hudson and saving her before it was too late. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock swiping his phone screen, looking for information. It was impossible to tell whether he was aware of the brief conversation between John and Greg.

Greg made a couple more calls to his teams at the Yard, organising the setups in front of both buildings and on the banks of the Thames between Big Ben and St Paul's. They'd mobilised some of their special forces who were equipped to deal with high-risk missions involving dangers like explosives or poisons.

When the three men finally reached St Paul's Cathedral, the Chief Superintendant was already waiting for them, loudly trumpeting his disapproval. While Greg raised his hands in a placating gesture and tried to prevent his boss from leaping at Sherlock's throat, Sherlock simply walked straight past them and went into the building.

The police officers from the Yard knew him so well by now that they didn't even try to stop him. And obviously the Chief Superintendant hadn't given any orders along those lines. The lecture which Greg had to listen to apparently had more to do with the organisation of the mission, the costs, and the obstruction of traffic. All because some old lady wasn't lying in her bed. They let Sherlock proceed anyway, however, as the past had proven more than once that his talents shouldn't be underestimated. And oh, what a field day they would have if the vaunted Consulting Detective was wrong this time!

Sherlock and John entered the baroque structure. The first team of special operatives was waiting for them in the entry hall, wearing body armour. The officer at the front approached, preventing them from going any further.

"The security checks haven't been completed yet, sir! You can't go in," he said sternly.

Fury sparked in Sherlock's eyes as he barked at the armed man: "Then hurry up already!"

John laid his hand on his friend's arm and squeezed it lightly in order to let him know that a tantrum wouldn't get them anywhere here. He turned to the policeman and tried it in a conciliatory tone of voice.

"Have you found anything yet? Any clues? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything?"

"No, sir."

John nodded his understanding and tugged Sherlock with him back towards the entrance. Greg was approaching from outside.

"I just got a call from the other team. Big Ben's clear... no sign of her... they're going through it again but Mrs Hudson doesn't seem to be there..." he explained, scratching the back of his head.

"Nothing here yet either," John replied. He dug his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. It was shortly after three in the morning by now.

"Sherlock... only about an hour and a half until sunrise... what should we do?" he asked, stopping short when he saw the chaos on his friend's face.

Sherlock had his hands clenched into fists and his lips pressed together into a thin line. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could, having difficulty holding back the trembling that shook his body.

"Get it together, Sherlock! Think! Have we overlooked anything? Or interpreted something wrong?"

"I... I don't know..." Sherlock muttered distantly. His face slowly relaxed a bit, becoming cool, almost expressionless. Without hesitating another moment, he turned away from the cathedral and set off. "Let's go down to the Thames and..." He suddenly stopped and stared at an invisible spot in the distance, his lips rounded to a silent 'Oh!'

"What is it?" John asked, catching up to him. The grim smile on Sherlock's face sent a cold shiver down his spine.

"That fiendish puppetmaster..." Sherlock hissed and turned to Greg. "Baker Street. Now!" Without waiting for the others, Sherlock ran towards where Greg's car was parked. "Dispatch a team to Baker Street! It's a matter of life or death!"

John hurried after his friend, completely baffled, as Greg made contact once more with the Big Ben team and gave them new orders. At the same time, he fished his car keys out of his trouser pocket and unlocked his car as they approached.

Sherlock promptly flung open the door and slid onto the passenger seat. John made haste to get in too, and a few seconds later they drove off. John waited nervously for Sherlock to explain himself.

"Red Riding Hood... Red Riding Hood and the big, bad wolf. Where does the confrontation between Red Riding Hood and the wolf happen in the story? Where does the girl go? Anyone who knows the story should know that..." Sherlock said, giving the other two men a moment to think.

"She goes into the woods..." Greg attempted to answer.

"More precise. She doesn't merely go into the woods. She first meets the wolf in the woods, but the wolf is clever... He doesn't just want to eat the grandmother, but the little girl too. He distracts the girl and...?"

"Goes to the grandmother's house to eat her..." John completed the thought. "Does that … Does that mean..." The words caught in John's throat as the realisation came to him.

"The whole thing with the stuffed wolf was only intended to distract us. The real wolf is where it is in the fairy tale... at Grandmother's house!" Sherlock crowed triumphantly.

"On Baker Street... then he only lured us away from there so that he could bring Mrs Hudson back to the flat?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes, I presume so..." Sherlock's voice sounded grim and threatening. Even if his deduction turned out to be true, they still didn't know what was waiting for them.

John wrung his hands in his lap anxiously. He didn't like the thought at all that someone had been in their house twice that day already without them noticing.

They made it through the traffic easily due to the early morning hour, reaching Baker Street faster than would have been possible during the day. Two more panda cars pulled up directly behind Greg's, and five men in body armour got out to storm 221B. Three of the men went straight to the door of Mrs Hudson's flat while the other two checked the upper floors.

Sherlock and John entered the flat after Greg and the team, looking around as they kept a respectful distance and waited for information from the front.

"She's here!" one of the men shouted after a few minutes, and the group launched into motion. Everyone gathered in the living room, from which a door led into Mrs Hudson's bedroom.

"Out of the way!" Sherlock commanded, pushing past people only to be held back before he could enter the room. Blocked by one of the special forces, all he could do was cast a look inside.

Mrs Hudson lay in the bed. The lavender comforter was drawn up to her chin. She wore an old-fashioned bonnet on her head. It looked completely ridiculous but it conjured up the image of the grandmother from the fairy tale. She'd been gagged and her cheeks were damp with tears and runny mascara. She was whimpering softly. Sherlock saw right away that there were several rectangular packets between the old lady and the cover. Explosives.

One of the body-armoured policemen approached the bed cautiously and lifted a corner of the cover. He took extreme care as he peeled it back from Mrs Hudson's body, making sure not to trigger any hidden mechanisms. The packets had been taped tightly to her body and attached to a timer on her chest, slowly counting down. John's throat tightened. There were barely forty minutes left to defuse the bomb and free Mrs Hudson.

All of a sudden, everything needed to happen quickly. Not only this building, but the ones next door and across the street were cleared, the civilians evacuated, and the street blocked off. Sherlock had only reluctantly allowed John to lead him away from the flat in order to seek cover at a safe distance. He hadn't wanted to leave his landlady alone.

"We're going to get you out of here, Mrs Hudson... I'm... I'm sorry!" he'd cried out before John had succeeded in tearing him away from the doorway to her bedroom.

Now they stood on the other side of the police tape, waiting for the explosives experts to do their job. Sherlock stared out in front of him as if he'd set his system on pause while the world around him kept going, just waiting for everything to be okay again when he turned back on.

John glanced nervously at the clock on his phone before looking over at Greg, who held a walkie-talkie tightly in one hand, his eyes fixed on the black door of 221B. 4:39. A clicking and static came from the walkie-talkie, followed by a beep, and then....

"The bomb's defused."

John could physically feel the weight lift off his chest. He took a breath of relief and scrubbed the tension out of his face. He went over to Sherlock, put a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed gently to let him know everything was okay. The information seeped into Sherlock's mind at an uncharacteristically slow pace. It wasn't until his eyes met John's and registered his smile that he visibly relaxed, seeming to breathe again for the first time in a long while.

Sherlock's phone signalled an incoming text. He fished it out of his trouser pocket, and both men looked at the screen.

_[Today, 16 Jun 2012]: Too bad about the fireworks! Next time, darling!_

John let out a sigh of frustration but didn't make any further comment on the message. They walked up the street together until they reached the door to the house. From a distance, they saw the special ops people bringing the packets of explosives out of the building. There were still a couple of officers inside to carry out one last security sweep, but no one stopped them from going in.

Mrs Hudson sat on her bed sobbing, her face buried in her trembling hands. A policeman sat beside her with his arm around her. When he saw the two men come in, he pulled away from the elderly woman and left her with Sherlock and John. John took the spot he'd vacated while Sherlock crouched down in front of Mrs Hudson and took her hands in his, squeezing them with gentle encouragement.

A knock sounded at the door, and Greg stuck his head in. "John? Can I talk to you a sec?"

John nodded once, stood up, and went out into the living room. Greg cut straight to the chase and held out a calling card.

"Here's the number of a psychologist who specialises in kidnapping and traumatic recovery... Maybe Mrs Hudson should go see him. We're leaving an officer here to keep an eye on the street. He'll be relieved at eight..." he said.

John took the card and thanked him quietly. He saw out of the corner of his eye as Greg's hand twitched as if he'd wanted to lift it, to reach for John, but instead he put it into his trouser pocket and cleared his throat lightly.

"Well then... take care, yeah?" he said, trying to smile. It came across forced.

John nodded again and turned to go back to Mrs Hudson.

 

*****

 

They'd offered to spend the night within reach or put her up in a hotel, but Mrs Hudson had waved them off and shaken her head to dismiss the notion. Once her nerves had settled, she'd returned to her old self with astonishing alacrity and gone into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

She was indignant as she told them about the two men who had arrived the previous afternoon, posing as clients. No sooner had she let them into the house than she'd been gagged and drugged to take her out of the house. She remembered sitting in a windowless room with nothing more than the chair she was tied to and a loudspeaker over the door. A single naked light bulb had hung from the ceiling, illuminating the room as brightly as if it were day.

Aside from the two men – whom she designated brainless lumps – she hadn't seen anyone. No one had spoken a single word to her, but she'd heard a voice coming from the ear buds the two men had worn. Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to understand anything. She'd hoped the whole time that her two boys would find her and had never given up. John smiled at her softly and took a sip of his tea.

The day was no longer young when they were finally able to fall into bed and devote themselves to some well-earned sleep. John lay down in Sherlock's bed without even thinking about it; he hadn't even been capable of taking off his clothes. Sherlock did the same, wrapping his arms around John and snuggling in close to his body. They didn't say anything else that morning. They were too tired and drained after the long night of excitement. Still, it took a while before John's mind had slowed down enough for him to finally fall asleep.

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Patrick Wolf - London](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJ61JXZb2hA)


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3
> 
> +++
> 
> SwissMiss helped me to re-write the summary of the story, please check it out! I think the true point of the story is much more clear now ;)

John woke around noon. The fatigue felt like an invisible blanket lying on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress. His eyes stung, unready to be confronted with daylight yet. He yawned and rubbed his eyelids, blinked grudgingly, and took in his surroundings. He registered his presence in Sherlock's room with a satisfied sigh. He rolled onto his side and dreamily regarded the man beside him.

Sherlock lay on his stomach, half of his face hidden between dark brown curls and the striped pillow. Deep, calm breaths revealed that he was still asleep. John reached out his hand and carefully brushed a lock of hair off Sherlock's forehead so that he could see him better. A pleasant tingling spread through John's stomach. He scooted closer to Sherlock's body, buried his nose in Sherlock's neck, and breathed in his familiar scent.

He didn't want to wake him but couldn't resist the temptation to slide his hand in underneath Sherlock's black shirt and rub his back. Warm skin, such a wonderful sense of intimacy between them... John made a languorous rumbling sound. However, the pleasant feeling dissipated when he remember the previous day. He was glad they'd been able to rescue Mrs Hudson, of course, but the mission had been close. It probably wouldn't have changed anything if John had had more information, but he still wished Sherlock had been more forthcoming with him.

It still bothered him that he'd only found the message from Moriarty by chance and that Sherlock hadn't told him anything about it. He couldn't explain why Sherlock hadn't wanted to share the information with him. Of course, Sherlock couldn't possibly tell John about every single tiny detail that he discovered or deduced – that would be an insurmountable task but when it concerned the life of his – no, of their – friends, a little more trust wouldn't be amiss, John thought.

Trust... John pressed his lips together and rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder blade. There it was again... the same old topic. How could John make Sherlock understand that he could trust John unconditionally? That there was no reason to treat him like a child and keep him out of situations that might mean trouble? Back in the beginning, they'd always set out together to face precisely those situations together. What had changed to make Sherlock want to keep him out of it now?

_Our relationship..._ John realised, taking a deep breath of the scent that had infused the black shirt. He sighed quietly as he turned over and swung his legs out of bed, rubbing both hands over his face and through his hair. He got up quietly and went out of the bedroom. Pausing at the door, he glanced back at Sherlock, but he hadn't moved at all.

When he heard clattering in the kitchen, John started. He cautiously peered around the corner and discovered Mrs Hudson. She was making tea and at the same time lifting two biscuits out of a tin with the help of two forks which she held like a pair of tongs. When she noticed John, her eyes widened in surprise.

"John!" she cried, hesitating a moment before stretching out an arm to wave him over.

John complied with mixed feelings. There was no other exit from Sherlock's bedroom, so she must have realised immediately where he'd come from.

"Good morning! Did you sleep well?"

"Yes... yes, I think so... not quite enough, perhaps," John replied, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth. Hopefully Mrs Hudson didn't take that the wrong way. "And... yourself? You must not have got much sleep either," he remarked.

"Oh, you don't need much sleep anymore at my age," she said with a dismissive gesture. She poured some of the freshly brewed tea into a cup, added some milk and sugar, and handed it to John. "Can I make you something to eat?"

John had to smile. He knew that Mrs Hudson liked to make tea for Sherlock's breakfast during the week, but she usually left that task to John at the weekend. This little change in her usual habits suggested that she must not have felt all that comfortable being alone in her flat after all.

"I'd love that," John said, smiling at her. He was surprised to realise that it didn't bother him whether Mrs Hudson knew about him and Sherlock or not. She was one of the first people who had thought they were in a relationship when John moved in – which had made John quite angry back then. Looking back now, she'd apparently had a good eye for such things.

John sat down in his usual spot with his cup of tea and scanned the headlines of the newspaper Mrs Hudson must have placed there. Of course news had got out of the kidnapping and bomb threat from last night. They were calling it the 'Showdown on Baker Street' with talk of a last-minute rescue. John frowned dubiously when he realised the newspaper he was holding wasn't the one they usually got. His eyes automatically flicked up to the miniature picture of the journalist who had written the article. Kitty Riley. The name didn't mean anything to him.

"Mrs Hudson, don't we usually get the _Times_?" John asked, folding the paper up and putting it down on the table.

"Yes, we normally do. That paper was outside the door this morning. The news seems to have spread quickly and they must have wanted to be the first to report it. You know how tough the competition is among the dailies," the old lady answered, shrugging her shoulders casually.

As she fried bacon and eggs in a pan, Mrs Hudson told John about her last conversation with their neighbour, Mrs Turner, just as she often did when she sat down with him. The information exchange usually happened one floor down, but John didn't mind the one-time change for today. He was glad if he was able to give Mrs Hudson at least a small sense of security.

"… and now it looks as if her tenants have gone and got engaged. Isn't that nice?" she asked as she set down the full plate in front of John and poured him some more tea. The encouraging smile on her lips sent a cold shiver down John's back, and he realised he'd only heard half of her flood of words.

"Erm..." was all he could say. He swallowed down the rest of his opinions with some tea, merely nodding evasively.

Mrs Hudson reached for one of the biscuits and slipped it between her red-tinted lips, barely concealing the smile at the corners of her mouth.

"You're a good man, John Watson!" she said, placing her hand on top of John's and squeezing it gently.

Both of their ears perked up when the door to Sherlock's room opened and the creaking of the floorboards sounded. John silently cursed the blood that inevitably shot into his cheeks; the old woman could hardly fail to notice it. A moment later, Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, mumbled a barely intelligible 'Good morning' in the middle of a yawn, and went over to Mrs Hudson so he could place a hand on her shoulder.

"How are you?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The old lady patted his hand and smiled gently to herself. "I've been worse," she replied and stood up to make room for Sherlock. "I'll just go take care of the laundry. Afterwards I'm off to see Mrs Turner and then to the shops – do you need anything?"

Both men answered in the negative and watched as she disappeared from the kitchen, whistling.

"She's in a pretty good mood for almost having been blown up a few hours ago..." John commented, putting a piece of bacon into his mouth.

"She's a tough old broad," Sherlock said, taking a cup from the cupboard to pour himself some tea. He took a biscuit and bit it in half as he added sugar and milk to his cup.

John rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. His gaze wandered around the kitchen, over the table in the middle of the room that was occupied by Sherlock's experiment, to the Erlenmeyer flasks and Petri dishes, and finally to Sherlock's hand, which lay between them beside the empty plate and the newspaper, feeling the grain of the wood.

Their eyes met. A shiver ran through John. He looked away. The silence between them became more and more palpable.

"We still haven't got any clues as to where Moriarty is... which means we need to remain alert."

John had actually wanted to talk about other things, but he didn't know how to start. And if Sherlock could tell that from his posture or tone of voice, he kept it to himself.

"Correct. I'll apprise Mycroft of the situation afterwards, even though I presume he'll have caught wind of it by now. He might have some useful titbits of information about Moriarty or at least Moran that could help us." Sherlock shoved a second biscuit into his mouth and drank some tea to wash it down. His eyes were still resting on John's.

"And Victor?" John asked after a bit.

Sherlock lowered his gaze, hesitating a moment before taking his iPhone out of his trouser pocket and placing it on the table in front of John. It was open to a text message that had arrived in the early morning hours according to the display. John skimmed the few lines it contained.

_Your boyfriend's worried about me. Nice of you to share my number without asking. I'm going back on Monday, you'll be rid of me then. – Vic_

John pursed his lips. "Sorry, I didn't want for... for... I don't know, for him to think I wrote to get back at him or anything... but after everything that's happened..."

"I know," Sherlock said and took his phone back.

"Where's he going 'back' to?"

"Manchester. His family has a business there that he'll inherit one day. His mother's running it now," Sherlock explained readily. "He read chemistry the same as I did, but he'll be taking over the company eventually when the time comes. He was never particularly happy about it..."

"Why's he doing it then?" John asked.

"Sentiment?" Sherlock replied with a shrug. "His grandfather founded the company and built it up into a rather successful enterprise. When his father died, his mother took over. A very ambitious, very strict woman... they've never got on, since... erm..." Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Since you and he...?" John prompted, giving Sherlock a questioning look.

Sherlock nodded mutely. John looked away, pensive. Victor's relationship to his mother couldn't help reminding him of his sister Harry and their parents, who hadn't even managed to come to her wedding. He shuddered to think what they would say if they ever found out about the most recent developments in John's life. He shook his head wearily.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Do you regret it?" Sherlock asked. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a combination of insecurity and worry. He was afraid of the answer, John could see that. Afraid that John would turn his back on him and reject him. That he'd try to return their friendship and their relationship to the point they'd started. At zero. To forget everything that had happened between them. Or worse – that he would leave. Sherlock had no idea.

As good as Sherlock was at seeing from a tie whether the person in front of him was a solicitor or a computer programmer, he was pants at comprehending the complexity of emotions. Emotions that John was sure Sherlock had seen in his eyes; and yet he still didn't seem to understand, didn't want to believe it was true. It was hard for John to suppress the grin that wanted to creep onto his lips.

"I don't know, Sherlock," John said, crossing his arms over his chest. "That alpha wolf number you pulled in the car last night was pretty embarrassing. Am I going to have to reckon with behaviour like that on a regular basis?" He couldn't hold back the laugh any longer when he saw Sherlock's utterly dumbfounded expression.

"Alpha wolf...?"

"You needling Greg on the way to the zoo. Seriously, Sherlock, you really... have no need of anything like that..." John leaned forward, propped his elbows on the table, and rested his head on his hand. A quiet smile found its way to his lips as Sherlock gave him a searching look.

"That... wasn't exactly... I... erm..." Sherlock broke off, startled, as he searched for words and stared instead at the plate of biscuits as if there were something fascinating to see there. John's grin widened. It was rather interesting to watch Sherlock's efforts, the way his brain was working and sorting through information. John half-heartedly suppressed a giggle and tilted his head to one side to catch Sherlock's eye.

"No," he finally said. "I don't regret it... That is..." John pursed his lips again, letting his eyes wander over the hands on the table. Sherlock's and his, arranged around the dishware. He could feel the heat radiating from the half-full teapot on the left. "There is one thing I regret... that I took so long to... to understand what I want."

"And what's that?" Sherlock asked, his voice little more than a raw croak. John didn't miss the restless flickering in his eyes. He grasped Sherlock's hand with both of his where it lay on its side on the table, and stroked Sherlock's palm with his thumb.

"You..." John said, barely above a whisper. His heart was banging anxiously inside his chest and seemed to be the only sound in his ears, in the whole room. He studied Sherlock's face, alert and expectant. He was a little confused by the fact that there was no immediate reaction. Had he perhaps said something wrong? Was it too soon? Too late? Too much? Just a bad time? Was there ever a good time?

Breathing shakily, Sherlock lifted John's hand and pressed his lips to it. The arc of his eyelashes trembled, casting long shadows on his cheeks as he closed his eyes to collect himself. John swallowed hard. As innocent as the touch appeared, the lips on the back of his hand triggered an electrifying tingle in his stomach. He cautiously extended the fingers of the hand Sherlock was holding and gently caressed the parts of Sherlock's face he could reach.

"… but you've known that for a while now," John declared. It was said in a teasing manner but he couldn't entirely conceal the breathless undercurrent to his voice.

"No," Sherlock countered, lifting his eyes. His hot breath singed the back of John's hand, seeming to penetrate through every layer of skin. "I suspected... hoped... wished... I always forbade myself from asking, from pushing... from wanting to... convince you... I was afraid you'd change your mind... that you..." Sherlock's gaze wavered, drifting off to an invisible point somewhere between them.

"What?" John asked, frowning uncertainly.

Sherlock's eyes flickered restlessly back and forth, unwilling to focus. "That you... as revenge..." Sherlock expelled the air from his lungs with a sigh, closing his eyes and mouth.

Something rumbled inside John. A dark feeling somewhere between guilt and horror gnawed its way through his guts. "That I only slept with you to get back at Greg?" he asked incredulously.

Sherlock nodded mutely without meeting his eyes.

"What... would be the point of that..." John whispered, shaking his head. He couldn't believe it. Was Sherlock really so insecure about John's feelings? Couldn't he see everything that had happened between them? Sherlock, of all people? Didn't he understand that John was prepared to sacrifice their friendship to be with him? He smiled sadly.

"Sherlock... do you really believe I'd be capable of something like that? Why would I have wanted to get between Greg and his wife, when he obviously wasn't the one I wanted to be with? Even if I wasn't aware of that for a long while... something in me must have known it the whole time. From the beginning. I... I was... jealous when I found out about Victor, and I couldn't figure out why."

Sighing, John turned his hand over in Sherlock's and stroked his cheek. Tentatively, as if he were afraid of hurting Sherlock with his touch.

"And Greg... He was able to just crack open the shell I'd built up around me over all those years. I thought I was in love with him, but..." John shook his head and stared at their interlaced fingers. Sherlock's hands lay stiff in his, motionless, as he listened attentively. "Without him, I'd probably still be hiding from my own feelings... from myself..."

"He asked me to let you go some time ago..." Sherlock said softly. Bitterness dripped from every word. "You were... _important_ to him..."

John turned away, staring at a spot in front of him. He didn't know what to do with that information. Why was Sherlock insisting on trying to convince him of the sincerity of Greg's feelings? Greg had chosen his wife in the end, _the love of his life_ , even if it wasn't mutual. There was no reason for John to go back now.

"Not important enough," John said, forcing himself to smile. "Just as he wasn't important enough to me." He caught Sherlock's eye and held fast to the flickering grey-blue. Without removing his hands from Sherlock's, John stood up and walked around the table. He tugged on Sherlock's arm, prompting him to stand as well so John could hug him. John sighed and nestled his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck, breathing in the familiar aroma of his skin and running his fingers across the black cloth that stretched across Sherlock's back. It felt good. Right.

Being so close to Sherlock's body, he could feel the throbbing of his heart, the motions of his ribcage with every breath, the heat that warmed him like the rays of the sun. He never wanted to go without this feeling of togetherness ever again. Sherlock's words in his hair, against his temple, his name, breathed out soundlessly. A kiss, velvety soft, unhurried. A glance, deep and penetrating. John followed the trail of the sensations that ran down his spine where Sherlock was touching him. His hand rubbed the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingers playing with the curls there at his hairline, threading into the silky strands as their lips caressed each other.

John didn't hesitate to allow Sherlock's tongue entrance to his mouth when it darted out and tapped his lips inquisitively. He stretched up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, and drew the taller man down closer to him. The sound of pleasure that came from Sherlock went straight to John's core, eliciting a delicious tingling in every fibre of his being. Right at that moment, it was a mystery to John how he'd been able to do without this... to wait for it so long.

Seeing Sherlock like this, untethered from their daily existence, separated from the hard shell he'd built around himself in order not to be hurt, fascinated John to no end. It was as if he'd cracked open a brand new book that no one had been allowed to read before. New words and turns of phrase that made the old, familiar world appear in a whole new light. Words full of sensuality and love, whose sound echoed in his heart.

"I love you..."

No sooner had John breathed those few words out over Sherlock lips, than he froze in shock. He hadn't wanted to do that, hadn't planned it, not consciously. Without his permission, without a single thought as to how and why, the words had stumbled out of his mouth, leaving him breathless in their wake. His eyes wide open, he stared at Sherlock, who had paused barely a centimetre away from his face. John swooned toward Sherlock, drunk on his own emotions, kissing him over and over until his lips started to protest, red and sore.

At the edge of his consciousness, he registered the light quiver that ran through Sherlock when John grabbed hold of him, trying to catch himself. He would have loved to ask whether Sherlock really hadn't known, how he ever could have doubted it. But maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd just been waiting for John to finally realise it. Maybe he'd only wanted to give John the chance to figure things out for himself – the same way Sherlock often did. Or he had truly assumed that no one would be willing to love such a difficult person as him. Had never noticed all the people to whom he meant something. In that case, Sherlock was as blind as a bat. John chuckled.

"What?" Sherlock asked, annoyed, and caught his eye.

"You're a bat," John answered, chuckling shyly.

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together sceptically before responding. "First I'm an alpha wolf, now I'm a bat... I don't think you should be visiting any more zoos for the time being!"

Silence reigned for a moment before both men burst out in peals of laughter. Unburdened; happy. At least for a little while.

 

******

 

Two bodies cuddled together tightly that evening. Lips found each other in a kiss between midnight blue sheets and moonlight. Hands sought skin, heartbeats an echo. The heat between them wove a cocoon around them, shrinking the world down to those few decimetres that were the measure of their island of pillows and feathers. The rushing of the blood in their veins like the pounding of the surf. Waves of ecstasy swept thoughts up to their crests, making them burst like soap bubbles. All that was left was the salt they licked from each other's skin.

A breathless moan in John's ear as he slid into the red-hot body which enclosed him like a velvet glove. He sank his teeth lustfully into the bared neck, reached into the silky curls, and let his tongue glide over those places where the little hairs stood quivering on end. The deep voice, continuously spilling out over the sensuous lips like morning dew, vibrating against his eardrums and reverberating in his bones. Quicksilver flashed brightly from between dark lashes, almost swallowed up by the pitch-black seas of the pupils battling for dominance.

A glance, a whisper, a plea. Sweet pain where nails left red streaks in a vain attempt to hold together the here and now. Gasps and lust-filled shivers with every move, every thrust, every roll of insistent hips. Giving and taking, demanding and pleading. A game of love that celebrated the connection of two souls. That crept through their veins like lava, setting every nerve ending on fire as it went. Moaning, gripping, holding, lost to the world. A cascade of colours never seen before, foreign words upon dried-out lips.

Lips that cleaved to each other in an eternal kiss.

 

+++

tbc

 

 


	30. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Victor up to, anyway...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3
> 
> +++
> 
> FYI: Nozzer = British navy slang, 'a new recruit; a novice'

Victor leaned his forehead moodily against the only window in the spacious living room, watching the play of colours of the sunrise reflected on the clouds. The glass pane was nice and cool, and soothed the throbbing pain in his head. He flipped his phone around and around in a circle between his thumb and middle finger, leaving smeary prints on the screen. He couldn't care less. No more than he cared about John Watson's message, which had arrived the night before.

The smell of stale smoke tickled his nose, triggering the desire for a cigarette. Rather than going over to the couch and rummaging for the Gauloise in the pocket of his jacket, though, he opened the window and let some fresh air in. Its coolness crept across his skin. He pulled the dressing gown tighter around his nude body, wrapped one arm around his stomach, and propped the elbow of his other arm on it. He ran his fingertips across his bottom lip, lost in thought. Outside, a small flock of birds was scattered by a barking dog.

Victor leaned his head back tiredly, rolling it slowly first to the right, then to the left, in order to stretch his muscles. Two hours of sleep were simply not enough.

"Do you have any coffee in?" a voice behind him asked.

Victor shook his head, sighing silently. He listened to the footsteps of the other man walking into the kitchen, heard glasses clinking and water running from the tap. The rosy pink colour of the sky had faded to a washed-out blue by now. The last few stars winked out. Birds twittered cheerfully. The previous night retreated further from his memory.

An arm slung itself around his hips without invitation and a forehead pressed in between his shoulder blades. He felt hot breath through the terry cloth of the dressing gown. His gaze wandered keenly over the delicate forearm that lay on top of his. Red roses and black thorns sprouted from a sea of laughing skulls. Victor thought he remembered a ship being visible on the upper arm, its sails blending in with some other symbols. Something with wings and other kitschy stuff. Every tattoo (and there were a lot of them) probably meant something to its owner – that was how these things were. But the one that had attracted Victor's attention last night was so simple and so macabre that it had conjured a smile onto his split lip.

A simple dotted line circumscribing the neck, with two equally simple words to the left of the Adam's apple: _Cut Here_. Victor couldn't explain why, but the incredible prickling sensation which the directive – which surely wasn't meant to be taken literally – had set loose in him had ensured that he simply had to take the other man home with him. The sex had been rough and hard. Uncompromising and meaningless. They hadn't even told each other their names. Or had they? Victor couldn't recall.

He could still feel some slight aftereffects of the drugs. The high had been much too short for such a long crash. Whoever had mixed that batch had really gypped him. He'd paid way too much for what had turned out only to be half a trip that had left him with a headache from hell. Of course, it was better than ending up in hospital like some people who got a bad batch, but still... If he ever laid eyes on that bastard again, the fellow might find it would have been better for him to shut down his business.

Victor shoved the arm away and turned around to lean against the window sill. The smile that was being directed at him reminded him of the Sphinx. The man's black hair was shorter than Victor's but stood up in every direction just the same. Deep black eyes lay beneath thin eyebrows, regarding him with curiosity. A variety of silver piercings in the man's ears, one nostril, and lip completed the picture of Victor's little fling. The young man's tongue piercing intrigued him, but he hadn't seen it in action last night. His eye caught on the slender figure's neck once more, tracing the delicate lines and simple letters with something close to tenderness.

"That was... interesting yesterday," _Cut-Here_ said, twisting his narrow lips into a grin.

Victor raised one eyebrow and huffed his agreement, nothing more. A facade, yes. A facade displaying various stories and memories, images from the past, dreams and desires, bound by a spell and woven into several layers of skin. That was the overarching impression he had.

_Cut-Here_ ran both hands through his hair, stretching at length, and left his hands locked behind his head. More to put his naked body on display than to relax his tired limbs.

"Haven't you got at least a fag for me?" The reproachful tone of voice was tempered by his smile.

Victor stepped away from the window and went over to the couch, reached for his jacket, and took out the pack of cigarettes. He tapped out two, put both of them in his mouth, and lit them. He then passed one over with a twirl of his index and middle fingers.

"You should go," Victor said, hoping that the cigarette was enough of a bribe to nip any protests in the bud.

"You think?" _Cut-Here_ said, tilting his head inquisitively. "I'd hoped you'd fuck me again before tossing me out."

Victor smiled coolly and made an amused sound. "Maybe next time," he answered evasively and sucked smoke deep into his lungs.

The other man walked over to him, grabbed the lapels of his dressing gown, and pulled Victor in close, a challenging smile on his lips.

"In that case, let's have that next time soon... what are you doing tonight?"

Victor shrugged indifferently. "I'll probably go to Deep Purple again... Find the bloke that sold me the X yesterday and carve him a new nose."

_Cut-Here_ chuckled cheerfully. "Oh, I know exactly who you mean! He's been selling watered-down shit for ages. Sorry, honey, but only idiots buy from him any more. Just ask me if you're looking for the good stuff. But say pretty please with sugar on top!"

His snotty grin disappeared suddenly when Victor grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back and down. Victor's eyes glittered dangerously. "If anyone's begging around here," he growled in a low voice, "it's certainly not going to be me!"

There was no fear in the young man's eyes. Quite the opposite: the harder Victor held him, the more _Cut-Here_ seemed to enjoy the pain. He slowly drew his lower lip in between his teeth and sighed lasciviously.

Victor snorted and let go, running his hand almost tenderly down the other man's neck before breaking the contact. "What's your name, anyway?" he asked, trying to ignore the nervous pounding of his heart. The kid was rattling at his self-control with just a little too much implicit assurance.

"Nozzer."

Victor broke out in a youthful peal of laughter, which the other man responded to with an indifferent shrug. "Are you in the Marines or something?" Chuckling softly, Victor stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and ran his hand through his unkempt hair.

Nozzer held out both hands. Slim letters were tattooed on the lower phalanges of his fingers, spelling out the words SAIL HOME. "I guess I do have a weakness for sailors," Nozzer confessed with a cheeky wink. "So... where were we?"

Victor couldn't help noticing that his own name apparently didn't matter. Or maybe he really had introduced himself already, and simply couldn't remember it. He thought nicknames were stupid, but whenever he met someone like Nozzer, it made a weird kind of sense. Who could say whether it might not be a distinct disadvantage to reveal your true name when you tended to such flagrant promiscuity as this young man. In addition, it had the advantage of making you stick in people's memory better when you had an unusual name.

"My dealer should be at DP tonight. I can introduce you to him if you want. Most people I know buy from him. Good quality at a fair price. He's known me a while now. You might even get a discount if I bring you in!" The broad grin on Nozzer's face looked so innocent that it was almost painful. Just for a moment, Victor imagined he saw behind the facade: a young man who was trying as hard as he could to struggle through life somehow. He quickly shoved the thought aside.

"Yeah... yeah, all right. Where should we meet?" he asked instead.

"He doesn't exactly do business right out there on the dance floor, so it'll have to be in one of the private rooms. If you give me your number I'll text you as soon as I know," Nozzer suggested, looking around for his trousers, which he found wadded up on the floor between the couch and the table. He picked them up and took out his phone.

Victor hesitated for a moment. He didn't usually just hand his number out to people he'd barely known for a single night. On the other hand, it didn't matter; just like nothing else mattered at the moment.

"Go ahead," Nozzer said, tapping away at his screen. As Victor recited his number, he wondered what name it was being saved under. He couldn't manage to get a glimpse of the device and didn't want to ask. He tossed his phone carelessly back on top of his jacket and went over to the window again to close it.

"Has your dealer also got a fancy nickname?" he asked, watching as one of the neighbourhood seniors chatted with a high-spirited young woman in a miniskirt and high heels on her way home. He heard the rustling of cloth on skin, and when he turned back around, Nozzer was already dressed and slipping into his shoes.

"Yeah, he has," he said as he straightened up, adjusting his shirt and black, ripped jeans-jacket with worn-out elbows. There was a smile on his narrow lips and a flash in his black eyes. "They call him Tiger." Raising his hand in a farewell gesture, he turned around and left the flat in a few strides.

Victor watched him go, pensive.

 

*****

 

By that evening, Victor wasn't really sure how he'd spent the day. At some point around lunchtime, he'd sent a text to Sherlock, complaining about him having passed Victor's number to John. After that, the rest of the day seemed to have been swallowed up by a dull background of static. Between doses of nicotine and coffee, waking dreams kept him from sleeping, bringing memories to the surface from the depths of his mind; memories he would rather not have seen the light of day. It was almost unbearable how many images had eaten their way into his soul uninvited and left their mark on places he visited daily, all in the course of nearly two decades. His flat alone housed a virtual museum of snapshots from better times.

The way they'd sat at the kitchen table together in the mornings drinking coffee, each of them balancing the butt of a cigarette between their fingers. The smell of skin and sex between them. A look, a smile. An entire conversation without a single sound passing over their lips. Every single room contained hundreds of moments in a life that was nothing more than a pipe dream. An illusion.

Sherlock wasn't coming back. Sherlock had John now. Sherlock had never shown actual interest in another person before. Not since back then. It was going to take some time before he'd analysed and catalogued all the possibilities. Until he'd decided whether John was really as fantastic as he thought at the moment. Everything in Victor resisted the notion. He didn't want to – _couldn't_ – accept that they had reached the end now, after so many years.

_He doesn't want you, damn it!_ he growled at the man in the bathroom mirror. _He never did, and he never will!_ Victor tried again and again to convince himself that Sherlock was driving him insane. In more than one way. It was impossible to spend any longer amount of time within the same four walls as him without wanting to wrap your hands around his throat. At the same time, it felt like the times in which Victor had been allowed to be close to that eccentric oddball had been the best of his life.

Victor blew the air out of his lungs heavily and rested his forehead against the mirror, holding himself up by gripping the sink, and closed his eyes. He wanted to be rid of all this confusion inside him. He'd struggled with it for too long already, but it had never been as bad as this before. Switch it off. Let it go. Turn off his brain and let himself float without wasting another thought on it. That was what he wanted. What he needed. But he couldn't do it without a little help.

Fortunately, it was ridiculously simple to get his hands on substances that helped him see the world a little differently. To turn things upside-down. Even if it only worked for a short period of time. Clawing his way from one glimmer of hope to the next, just in order to hold on a bit longer. Sleeping and getting high in a constantly fluctuating sea of emotions.

When he descended the metal stairs into the club and was swallowed up by the violet light, it was as if he were entering another world. Music droned from the loudspeakers, making the walls and his body thrum. The smells of sweat and alcohol and undreamed dreams hung in the air, spiked with the sweet scent of perfume and mist from the fog machines, and heavy with blood rushing through veins. The dancing mass moved in a single rhythmic wave, like demons faintly lit by white and blue and deep purple. A descent into the first circle of hell – _lust_ – which they all hungered for so ravenously.

Before Victor got to the bottom, he let his gaze sweep across the heads of the dancers to take stock of the situation. He thought he might recognise a couple of familiar faces amidst the club's crepuscule quivering, but couldn't be certain. His path led him straight to the bar, where he ordered a beer and checked his mobile while he waited for the bottle to be placed on the counter in front of him. No messages. He paid and took a couple of swigs, checking out the men who were standing close by.

It was horribly warm, and he was glad he'd only put on a black, sleeveless shirt and left his jacket at the coat check. He absently plucked at the neckline of his shirt, blowing air onto his steamy skin. The man to his left looked him over with interest, letting his eyes wander serenely over Victor. When Victor noticed him, he smiled casually but turned away without paying the man any further attention. Several minutes passed, during which he was approached and invited to dance but Victor said no, asking for a rain check.

The waiting was getting on his nerves. If Nozzer didn't show up soon, he'd look for someone else to sell him something. As if on command, his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He took it out and opened the text message that had just arrived.

_6._

Victor furrowed his brow for a fraction of a second before he understood. He vaguely recalled that the private rooms were numbered. Without wasting any more time, he pushed past the people at the bar and went down the hallway behind it. A passageway led into the back section of the club, which housed a well-frequented darkroom along with eight private rooms: separate spaces that couldn't be locked for security reasons, but which at least provided more privacy than the hallways or the open public spaces.

All of the rooms were obviously occupied, as the doors were closed and several guests were waiting outside them. That didn't stop many of them from groping each other right there in the hall, though. And right outside door number six, a couple stood with their arms wrapped around each other, making it impossible for anyone to go in or out.

"May I?" Victor asked brashly, pushing the two protesting men aside. He knocked once, pushing down on the handle at the same time, then opened the door and slipped inside the room.

To the left of the entry stood a round table, behind it a corner bench covered in red leather. The upholstered surface extended along the entire left-hand wall, ending in a somewhat broader square whose sides measured nearly a metre. The music was a little quieter here, yet it still seemed to be throbbing in the walls and furnishings. Diffuse light in red and violet dominated here as well, lending the scene a somewhat surreal air.

Someone Victor knew quite well sat at the table. Bent over cigarette papers and tobacco that barely had room next to the various cocktail glasses and bottles of beer and vodka was his dealer. He had the sleeves of his khaki-coloured suit jacket pushed up to his elbows and wore tinted glasses in spite of the low light. He didn't seem to have noticed Victor at all. Victor registered the way the man's fingers trembled slightly, but almost immediately averted his gaze.

There was a much more interesting scene playing out on the upholstered seat. A man reclined there, more lying than sitting, his wine-red shirt unbuttoned to reveal a muscular chest. Victor could only see his face from the side, and due to the poor light it was difficult to make out. His hair was probably blond, or at least a light shade of brown. It was cut short and neatly styled. And on his lap, facing outward, sat Nozzer, completely naked. His knees were bent so that he could kneel on the seat, bouncing rhythmically as his erection jumped up and down between his thighs. He moaned lasciviously, balancing himself with his hands on the other man's knees so that he could move faster. None of those present seemed to be bothered in the slightest by Victor's presence.

The man – whom Victor presumed was Tiger – glanced over at him after a while to reveal a row of white teeth. It reminded Victor more of a shark than a tiger. Cold sparks flashed in his eyes, sending a shiver down Victor's spine. The self-assuredness with which he was fucking Nozzer by drawing him down onto his lap over and over again left no doubt in Victor's mind that it was no coincidence that he was witness to the proceedings.

_Fine, if that's the way it is..._ Victor thought to himself and leaned casually against the wall to his right so that he could watch the two men unimpeded. He crossed his arms and viewed the scene, interested to see what the point of this all was. A demonstration of power? Humiliation? Or was it just a case of two exhibitionists who had fun putting other people on the spot? Let them try. Victor was hardened enough not to be unsettled by such games.

Nozzer moaned loudly and shifted his weight to Tiger's left knee so that he could grasp his erection with his right hand in order to stimulate himself even more. It was obvious that he'd reached the point at which he wanted to climax; had to climax. The sweaty tattoos on his body gleamed alternately red, violet, and blue.

"Please..." he begged, his voice cracking, when Tiger reached around him, grabbed both of his wrists, and twisted them onto his back. Without the additional support of his arms, Nozzer's entire weight rested on his knees and his quivering thighs, which were put under additional strain due to the motions of the pelvis underneath his slender body. He tried desperately to balance out the position and the incessant stimulation inside him.

"You're not... coming... before me... understood?" Tiger growled, breathing hard. The position and the amount of strength necessary to maintain it must have also been getting to him. But the beastly smile on his lips testified of something else altogether. He clearly enjoyed the power he exercised over the other man, his sweet pleas, his helplessness somewhere between lust and humiliation.

Victor's heart rate had increased rapidly. His breaths came in gasps at the sight spread out before him. He couldn't help wishing that Nozzer would fail, would lose the fight against his body and climax. Victor was dying to know what consequences Nozzer would suffer, what punishment awaited him. Victor was as hard as a rock by now, and his erection was pressing uncomfortably against the button flies of his jeans. He casually ran his hand over the bulge, trying to reduce the pressure a little.

The pale eyes of the man they called Tiger met his. The knowing smile sprinkled down Victor's spine like fresh snow. He couldn't help no longer feeling like an innocent witness, and more like prey. But Victor wasn't about to give up control over himself that easily. He pushed decisively off from the wall and went over to the other two. He stood in front of Nozzer and caressed his head and neck almost tenderly, noting with satisfaction as Tiger slowed his motions and gave him a keen, assessing look.

His lids fluttering, Nozzer met Victor's eye without really seeing him. His pupils were so dilated that Victor could only guess at the colour of his irises. His chest rose and fell rapidly, glistening with sweat. His stiff nipples stuck out like flower buds, and pre-come dripped from the flushed head of his penis. A pleading whimper fought its way out of his throat.

Victor looked past Nozzer to examine Tiger's sharp-edged face. He could see a vertical scar that ran down the left side, standing out darker in the dim light. Tiger continued to thrust into the other body, steady and unhurried. He returned Victor's gaze with a cool smile and nodded once. Victor couldn't explain what happened to him at that moment. Something in his head seemed to slot into place, virtually forcing him to turn his previous wish that Nozzer would fail into reality. With a single smooth motion, he sank to his knees between the other two men's spread legs and ran his hands down Nozzer's cheeks, chest, and pelvis until they slid across his trembling thighs.

He traced the same path with his tongue, licking Nozzer's collarbone and ribcage, running his teeth across his sensitive nipples and tense abdomen. Nozzer gasped in desperation when Victor's thumb slid feather-light up the underside of his cock, over the frenulum and glans to the slit at its tip. His fingers barely touched the skin as they spread the fluid welling up there, coaxing a helpless gasp from the other man.

Victor briefly enjoyed the sight of the two bodies joined in copulation only a few centimetres away from him: the way Tiger's cock slid over and over into Nozzer's pliant body, sending tiny shudders through his limbs. The familiar odour of Nozzer's body combined with that of the other man, the smell of his jeans, and the leather of his shoes. Cedar wood and bergamot. Sweat and sex. Victor opened his mouth to let the tip of his tongue lick slowly across Nozzer's swollen glans, ingesting the salty film of pre-ejaculate as he felt the incredible heat radiating from the other body.

"Don't... no no no, please... don't," Nozzer whinged, almost choking on his groan when Victor's mouth closed around him. Both rough and soft, his tongue stroked lecherously over the sensitive flesh, sharpening to a point as it made its way across the slit. Victor stabilised Nozzer's bouncing cock with one hand as Tiger ramped up his movements again, pounding into the helpless body even deeper and faster. A loud groan echoed off the walls as Victor adjusted to the jabs and let Nozzer's penis slide all the way into his mouth so he could suck and lick it. With his free hand, he grasped Nozzer's taut sac and massaged his balls, then let his fingers wander further back and inserted them between the folds of Tiger's jeans.

He grinned mischievously to himself, because now it was Tiger who moaned in surprise when Victor stroked his testicles and rubbed his perineum, putting the presumably superior man's willpower to the ultimate test. He would have loved to play the game out to its conclusion, but the jeans were in his way, and his wrist started hurting fairly quickly from being twisted around, so he withdrew it and reapplied himself to Nozzer. Victor's talented tongue and flexible lips continued working at stimulating the young man, intoxicated by this game of power and humiliation, always with his sights set on the goal of forcibly taking away the other man's control over his own body.

He was so preoccupied with his intentions that he didn't pay the slightest attention to his own arousal. Although his erection continued to throb in its uncomfortable position inside his tight trousers, Victor ignored his own needs in the illusory certainty that the game would be worth it for him in the end. An indescribable sense of satisfaction flowed through him as he felt Nozzer tense up, his muscles quivering with his contractions as the penis in Victor's mouth pulsed with pleasure. Warm semen shot into Victor's mouth, and a loud cry echoed in his ears. The sweet melody of failure.

He let Nozzer slip very slowly out of his mouth, let him feel each and every millimetre along his over stimulated length, thoroughly enjoying the other man's inevitable defeat. Nozzer hung limply in the firm grasp Tiger held him by his forearms, barely able to hold himself up. Victor carelessly spit the semen out onto the floor and wiped his hand across his wet lips. He scooted back a little to be able to catch Nozzer if Tiger let him go suddenly. At the same time, he was able to catch a glimpse of Tiger and see the malicious smirk distorting his features.

Tiger clicked his tongue derisively. "That wasn't the deal, sweetheart. You didn't have permission to come before me."

A twitch ran through Nozzer, accompanied by a whimper of despair. "Please, sir... it wasn't my fault... I couldn't help it... It..." He couldn't manage to complete the sentence. His brain was still barely able to comprehend what had just happened and work out the consequences. Still, Victor could see the hint of fear creasing his forehead above his thin eyebrows.

"Get off," Tiger commanded, giving Nozzer an unfriendly shove.

His limbs unable to sustain him, the slender figure landed awkwardly on his knees, Victor's arms cushioning his fall. Victor's protective instincts were immediately triggered when the shivering heap cuddled up against his chest. Unsettled, Victor glanced over at his former dealer, but he was slumped over in the corner bench, snoring softly. There didn't seem to be any hope of assistance from that end, should the situation get out of hand. Victor watched closely as Tiger peeled off the condom and hurled it in the direction of the table. It landed on the floor underneath.

Tiger's fist closed loosely around his erection, sliding slowly up and down it without taking his eyes off the other two men. Once more, a perfidious grin divided his face into two asymmetrical halves. He reached into his trouser pocket with his free hand and took out a small packet, which he flipped over between his fingers contemplatively.

"Now we've got a problem, Nozzer. You've not only left me high and dry, but our valued guest too. And what kind of host would I be if I let that slide?"

Tiger sat up and scooted forward to the edge of the rectangular couch, leaned toward Nozzer, and wrapped both hands around his face. He gently drew him closer until they were only a few centimetres apart.

"You're going to make both of us come, got that? Otherwise you'll have to get used to the fact that the only thing I'll ever touch you with again will be the flogger... understood?" Tiger whispered the words across Nozzer's lips, velvety smooth, waiting for the jerky nod before kissing him tenderly. Without looking up, he tossed the packet to Victor.

Victor's groin throbbed expectantly, while goose pimples spread across his back with a tantalising tingling sensation. His hands had already opened his flies before he'd spared a conscious thought on it. He freed his erection with quick, nimble fingers and sighed softly when the uncomfortable pressure disappeared. He tore open the packet and took out the condom, unrolling it over his cock after running his hand up and down it a couple of times in order to counteract the intense urge which had built up inside him over the past few minutes.

Tiger leaned back again, letting his arms rest on the red leather to either side of his thighs as he regarded the other two men with a disparaging look.

Nozzer turned to Victor and extended one arm. "Come here," he whispered, his voice raw, barely able to form intelligible words.

Victor complied with the request, sliding closer to him. His knees hurt from crawling around on the hard floor, but the pain receded to background noise with all the adrenaline being pumped through his bloodstream. Victor ran both hands over Nozzer's colourful, tattooed back, feeling the wiry muscles beneath his fingers as he wiped the sweat from his skin. His thumbs glided over the curve of his arse as Nozzer leaned into him and kissed him. He plunged his tongue hungrily into Victor's mouth, sucking greedily on its counterpart and on his lips, letting the metal ball of his piercing clink against Victor's teeth.

They hadn't kissed on the mouth last night. Neither of them had asked to or indeed asked why not. They'd renounced such intimacies in silent agreement. What had changed today? Maybe it was the fact that they knew each other better now, or that Nozzer was ready to open himself up to that possibility after his orgasm. Maybe he just wanted to calm Victor down; his heart was hammering much too fast against his ribs. Nozzer's lips slid across Victor's cheek to play with his earlobe.

"Fuck me... hard... like last night. No prisoners... no losses," he growled, kissing Victor once more on the cheek before crawling the last few centimetres over to Tiger without letting Victor out of his sight. Not until he was kneeling between Tiger's legs, his arms resting on Tiger's thighs, did Nozzer look away, lifting his arse up in invitation.

Victor's head was spinning. He shakily let the air out of his lungs and finally shuffled closer to Nozzer's rear. His eyes burned into the slender man's back and wandered down his spine, down between his arse cheeks and the stretched opening there, moist and reddened. Victor wouldn't even need any lubricant to penetrate him easily, to take possession of him.

Nozzer sighed softly when he licked Tiger's erection, the lingering aftertaste of latex and sweat on his tongue. He spread his knees a little more, swaying his hips enticingly to tell Victor to get started already. It wasn't going to be necessary for Nozzer to express his readiness again. Stabilising his erection with one hand as he grasped Nozzer's pelvis with the other, Victor pushed into the pliant body. The heat inside surrounded him, burning on his skin. A helpless whimper sounded, and Victor couldn't help imagining how it must be vibrating around Tiger's erection, sending waves of arousal through his body. Nozzer must be completely overstimulted by now, and yet – or perhaps for that reason – Victor wanted to coax even more of those marvellous sounds out of him and see him burst apart into all of his component parts.

It wasn't long before he started to speed up, thrusting recklessly into the wonderful heat. Across Nozzer's back, he watched the movements of his head as he let Tiger's cock penetrate deep into his throat. Tiger's hands ran through Nozzer's tangled black hair, stopping him from moving any further away than absolutely necessary. His eyes bounced back and forth between Nozzer and Victor, eventually locking on Victor's when he returned the look. The diabolical grin on his lips spoke of triumph, sending a fresh, ice-cold shiver down Victor's spine. The charisma radiating from this man surprised Victor more than he wanted to admit.

The sounds of heavy breathing and the slap of skin on skin filled the room. Soft moans and sighs combined with the muffled tones coming from the loudspeakers. Lust and pain danced in harmony on the waves of ecstasy, teasing and tantalising each other. Victor couldn't pinpoint when exactly he lost all sense of time. Everything around him seemed to be reduced to the incredible sensations building up in his groin, seizing hold of him and washing over him both hot and cold. He grabbed Nozzer's hips with rough hands, leaving red marks that would still be visible the next day. He pounded into the willing body without restraint, always just about to lose the last bit of control that stood between him and insanity. As if through a thick fog, he heard a low voice.

"Make him come."

When he finally registered Nozzer tightening his internal muscles, it was too late. The orgasm crashed over Victor like an explosion, robbing him of his senses for a moment. He was filled with a white silence. Everything in him seemed to be contracting convulsively until he gave in with a helpless groan and let the incredible sensations flow through his body. Panting, he held himself up with one hand on the floor, resting his forehead against Nozzer's damp back. He forced himself to lift his head with difficulty to look up at Tiger over Nozzer's shoulder: he'd finally allowed his arrogant facade to drop and surrendered to the stimulation. It took barely a minute longer before he grabbed hold of the black hair, ground his jaws firmly together, and struggled to suppress a groan as he came.

Still panting, Victor brushed the tangled strands of hair off his forehead and slipped out of Nozzer's body. Nozzer reacted with a soft sob, heaved himself up somehow and scrambled up onto the seat next to Tiger. He nuzzled against the other man like a cat, burying his face in the material of his jeans. Tiger gently ran his fingers through his tousled black hair and down the back of his neck, a satisfied smile on his face.

"Well done. Have a rest..." he rumbled, straightening up so he could lean back more comfortably and give Nozzer more room. At the same time, he casually pulled up his jeans so he could zip them again.

Victor rebuttoned his trousers too and slowly stood up. His legs protested painfully, but relaxed again right away. He watched as Tiger picked up a blanket from next to the couch and spread it over the curled-up man beside him before sliding away and standing up to reach for one of the glasses on the table. He greedily tossed back the mojito then put the glass down again with a clink and started to button up his shirt. His eyes slid lazily over to Victor.

"So you want some X?" Tiger asked, the twitch at the corner of his mouth distorting the scar running down the left side of his face.

Victor shrugged as if the topic didn't interest him. He nudged his head in the direction of his former dealer. "What about him?" he demanded. If it turned out that he'd taken some of Tiger's wares and then collapsed, Victor wasn't interested – even though the life of the cowering man meant shockingly little to him.

Tiger reached across the table and fished himself the cigarette the dealer had rolled earlier, put it between his lips, and lit it. He didn't speak until he'd leisurely exhaled the smoke.

"I made him take some of his own medicine. It wasn't enough to do any serious damage, don't worry. But he's going to have a hell of a headache for the next few days. The bastard almost ruined my business," he explained, sucking on the butt.

"Didn't that end up with you selling more?" Victor asked, wrinkling his forehead in bewilderment.

Tiger shook his head. "He actually worked for me. But he cut the drugs to sell more and pocketed the additional profits himself. Must have missed the fact that I have eyes and ears everywhere..." Tiger winked conspiratorially. He took a small baggie out of his trouser pocket, no bigger than Victor's palm. It contained two white pills. One sported the head of a tiger, while the other was imprinted with a fox.

"Here, on the house," Tiger said, put his index and middle fingers into Victor's trouser pocket to pull him closer, and stuck the baggie inside. The energy rolling off him was irritating. Victor's eyes skittered across the angular features, unable to settle on his eyes or his mouth. The grey of Tiger's irises seemed to absorb all the colours of the room's lights and eat through Victor's skin. Up close like this, he could see that the vertical scar wasn't the only one etched into the man's face. Various silvery gleaming lines decorated his forehead, cheekbones, and chin. Victor guessed that the man in front of him was a retired soldier. He couldn't imagine how a person would come by wounds like that otherwise.

As if in a daze, he registered the fact that Tiger's fingers were still in his pocket. Something in him flinched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as Tiger once more revealed two rows of white teeth, pulling his lips back into a shark's smile. The sensation came over Victor of having ended up in a predator's crosshairs. He couldn't say whether he liked it or not.

"We'll have to do this again sometime," Tiger rumbled barely two centimetres away from him. "I like you." He sucked air in through his nose, as if inhaling Victor's scent in order to store it away somewhere, turning away with the same motion to return to the couch. "You know where to find me now if you need more. Or if you want anything else..." He dropped down onto the red leather upholstery and rested his arms on the seat back.

Victor could only nod. Not certain whether that last sentence contained more innuendo than he was comfortable with, he turned to the door and left the room.

 

*****

 

The man everyone called Tiger found him before Victor could even set foot in the back section of Deep Purple the next evening. He'd gone with the sole intention of scoring something harder than ecstasy in order to more effectively turn off the thoughts that continued to torture him. Or at least that's what he tried to tell himself. The truth was that Tiger's invitation had intrigued him. It had got under his skin, inflamed his nerve endings, and left a whisper of a promise behind in his mind that he now intended to cash in on.

The drive to engage in extreme acts was in Victor's blood. He'd often tested himself, felt out his limits, and always ended up going further than he'd thought he could handle. Maybe that would spell his downfall one day. Maybe that day was today.

Tiger placed a hand on his shoulder when Victor was just finishing washing his hands and about to leave the loo. The shark-tooth grin flashed, announcing his superiority. Tiger knew precisely what effect a successful moment of surprise could have. A moment of inattentiveness, of lowered defences. His prey didn't know what was happening, and before Victor could collect itself, he had already relinquished control. Mimicking frustration, Victor growled when he saw the sneaky look on the other man's face.

Tiger kissed him abruptly, plunging his tongue into Victor's mouth and wrapping an arm around his waist. A hand grasped Victor's hip roughly, ran down his thigh, dug into the back of his knee, and heaved him up onto the sink. Knocked off balance, Victor landed hard against the tiled wall with Tiger's weight pressing against his torso. Victor pushed him far enough away that he could take a breath and gave him a dark look.

"Nice of you to accept my invitation," Tiger growled, drawing Victor closer by the hips and pressing insistently against his inseam.

"Fuck you," Victor said in an attempt to defend himself, as if he didn't want to respond to the provocation. But Tiger apparently took it as a challenge. He grabbed Victor's wrist with an iron fist, yanked him down off the sink, and twisted his arm up onto his back. Cursing, Victor stumbled forward and tried half-heartedly to squirm out of the embrace. Let Tiger think he'd already won. Victor was quickly chivvied into a stall and pushed up against the wall with Tiger leaning into him. Victor's shoulder hurt and his head throbbed unpleasantly where it had hit the tiles.

Spoiling for a fight, Victor grabbed a fistful of Tiger's tight-fitting shirt, tugging at it while pushing the other man away at the same time. Tiger, realising that Victor was fighting back, glared at him hungrily. He didn't count on Victor not being done by a long shot, however. Because Victor was able to push the taller man all the way back and turn the tables on him. He grinned to himself smugly when Tiger let out a cry of surprise. Now he was standing with his back to the wall, struggling to regain the upper hand. They kept it up for quite a while, clawing at skin and cloth, leaving behind red marks and clashing again and again in a duel of their tongues.

Victor tasted blood before he felt the sore spot on his lip a second later where Tiger had bit down too hard. That moment of distraction sufficed to wedge Victor in against the wall face-first and hastily tug at the material of his trousers until Tiger's fingers found their way inside.

"I don't bottom," Victor growled between two breaths.

Rough hands grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head around far enough for greedy lips to press down on his, smothering any further protests. It tasted of copper. Teeth dug into his reddened flesh. The other man's tongue cut itself a path, fighting with his and drawing out an inadvertent sigh from Victor's throat. Trapped between cold tiles and a hot body, he gasped for air, pulling at the hand wending its way into his trousers over his arse. A devilish grin spoke of the intention to teach him a lesson.

The heady rush of lust dug its way deep into the tracks of Victor's mind, creating chaos amongst his trains of thought. Why had he set himself up for this? He'd suspected from the start that this man was dangerous, that he toyed with people like a cat with a ball of yarn. And despite knowing all that, Victor had ignored the warning signs and followed the sparks he'd felt between them. He was playing with fire, and oh how much he wanted to be burnt!

After Victor's protest, Tiger paused. He looked down at the fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist, a strange expression on his face. He wasn't ready to surrender, yet he released Victor, who squeezed himself into the corner of the stall in order to expose a smaller surface area to attack.

"You're a fighter... I like that..." Tiger said in a deep voice, smiling at the same time. There was blood on his lip and a hint of madness in his eyes. Victor shivered with desire. Tiger leaned his forearms on the wall to either side of Victor's head and kissed him. Gently this time, almost tender. Surprised by the sudden about-face, Victor let it happen, enjoying the caresses on his smarting lips. His entire body buzzed with the exertion from their recent wrestling match.

"Is that why they call you Tiger? Because you play with your prey before eating it?" Victor asked between kisses. His fingers wandered on a quest of discovery underneath the other man's shirt, feeling their way across skin and muscles. It felt forbiddingly good.

"Maybe," Tiger returned with a grin, exhaling across Victor's jaw before kissing his way up the bone to his ear. He caught Victor's earlobe between his teeth and suckled on it, eliciting a marvellous tingling sensation that went straight to Victor's groin.

"Come with me," Tiger whispered, trying to catch Victor's eye. "Let's go somewhere where we won't be disturbed..." He kissed seductively down Victor's neck bit by bit until he reached his clavicle and nibbled his way along the bone.

Victor leaned back against the wall, sighing, and bit down on his lip. He didn't want this moment to end. "I already... _hng_... said that I... ah... don't bottom."

"There are other options," Tiger rumbled, running his thumb along Victor's bottom lip, including the tip of his tongue which peeped out. "Maybe this fabulous mouth can convince me to bottom for you instead..."

Victor's breath caught in his lungs. A warm, tingling sensation spread through his body at the thought of seeing this dominant man writhing underneath him. His instinct said that this wasn't an everyday thing for Tiger, that he didn't usually relinquish the role of the top. Victor was more than okay with that. He wasn't going to let this chance pass him by. The prospect of knocking a chunk off the other man's pride was too tempting.

"Let's go then."

They drove through the city in Tiger's car for several minutes. The streets were almost empty by then, and the few people still out in the mild summer night were blazing trails between the clubs and bars. Only a few wispy clouds tarnished the clear, starry sky, lethargically covering the ivory crescent moon. They stopped and got out at a car park behind a building between Park Street and Southwark Bridge. Victor looked around uncertainly, trying to figure out where they would be going since the building didn't look very residential.

"Where are we?" Victor asked, following after Tiger, who had already gone over to a heavy-looking metal door, presumably the rear entrance to some public building.

A conspiratorial grin appeared on Tiger's face. "I want to show you something," he said. He unlocked the door, put his weight against it, and opened it to reveal a passage into the darkness beyond.

Curious, Victor entered the dismal corridor, waiting until Tiger had flipped a light switch and the fluorescent lamps on the ceiling had flickered on. Tiger strode forward with confident steps, leading Victor up a flight of stairs and through narrow hallways, some of which had dark cloth panels hanging on the walls. They passed by several doors with numbers on them but didn't peek into any of the rooms. Victor looked up. The white walls only extended up for about three metres. Above them, the ceiling disappeared in impenetrable darkness. Victor thought he saw some ropes dangling down, along with hooks and other implements for hanging things.

Tiger stopped and did something to some sort of fuse box. After flipping a couple of switches, he turned to Victor and nodded his head toward a dark blue curtain on his left. "Go on," he prompted with a grin.

Curious, Victor put one hand through the curtain and pushed the heavy felt cloth to one side. A stage extended in front of him, sparsely lit by three spotlights hanging from the ceiling. The countless rows of seats on the other side were swallowed up by the darkness in the rest of the hall.

"Amazing," Victor murmured, stepping out onto the hardwood. A fairy-tale backdrop was set up on the stage. Trees and bushes, birds, and a white horse with a royal harness were painted on thick cardboard. Thorny vines wrapped around a medieval tower thrusting up from a sea of blossoms. The dark blue curtain depicted the night sky, hung with silver stars.

Fascinated, Victor turned in a circle, taking in every last detail. The scenery reminded him a little of his time back in primary school, when he'd put together similar cardboard props with his classmates for the school play. That had been the last time he'd stood on a stage.

"What theatre is this and why do you have a key?" Victor asked, turning to Tiger, who was just checking his phone. He quickly put the device away again when he was addressed and went over to Victor.

"This is the Rose Playhouse. It belongs to a friend of mine I do some odd jobs for once in a while," Tiger answered with a shrug. "I like coming here when they're between productions. It's so quiet here, with so much space. I can think without being disturbed." He stood directly in front of Victor now and lifted one hand to brush some strands of hair out of his face. He then leaned forward and kissed him lightly. "And it's marvellous for doing other things as well..." he added in a low voice.

"Here? You're mad!" Victor retorted with a laugh.

"Why not? No one's going to be here before tomorrow morning. Or do you need a little more motivation?" Tiger asked, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to extract a small glass vial with a screw-top lid. He shook it playfully in the air between them. "We could make it snow a little..."

Victor cursed himself silently for the fact that his mouth was watering. His body had been pushing him toward harder drugs more often recently. The danger of losing control was becoming nearly astronomical. But the euphoria he was seeking which came with cocaine made it possible for him to make it through a couple more days. For just a little longer, to endure the pain raging inside him that simply didn't want to be tamed. He only needed a small amount to enable him to turn a blind eye to all the negative emotions and only remember the good times. To surrender to the fictions he'd lived with for so long.

"And what do you want in return?" Victor asked, a bit sceptical. He couldn't imagine that Tiger was going to just give him drugs because he had them. It couldn't be about sex – he must have realised by now that he could have that anyway if he wanted it.

"Hmm..." Tiger said playfully, glancing up at the spotlights as if he were really considering a suitable payment. "What might I want? To spend a nice evening with you... and for you not to tell anyone about this place! So... deal?"

Victor smiled and shook his head in resignation. "Fine, deal. That batch might not be any good. It's justifiable for me to try some of it before buying it from you!" he joked and sat down on the floor next to Tiger.

With a few practised motions, Tiger unscrewed the little black lid, sprinkled a small amount of the white powder onto the back of his hand, and held it out to Victor. Victor leaned over, pressed one side of his nose closed, and sniffed the powder in through his open nostril. He ran one hand roughly over his face to counteract the unpleasant burning sensation before rolling onto his back. Draping his lower arm over his eyes, he shielded himself from the spotlights sending hot light down over them. He heard Tiger sniff some of the powder too, then screw the vial closed. A moment later, Tiger straddled Victor and bent down over him. He kissed him tenderly on the lips, tracing their contours with his tongue.

"Do you know who you remind me of?" Tiger asked, an odd expression in his grey eyes.

"Who?" Victor could already feel something shifting in his head; the blood was rushing in his ears and his limbs felt heavy. Strange, he thought. He usually felt light and exhilarated, ready for adventure and like nothing could stop him.

Tiger's hand caressed his cheek, his neck, down his chest and stomach, but rather than feeling the touches more intensely, they seemed to fade away behind a fog of incomplete perception. There was a trace of melancholy on Tiger's face; it would have irritated Victor if he'd been in any state to notice it. There was another kiss; it felt like a good-bye.

"You remind me of Sleeping Beauty," Tiger whispered. He reached into the pocket of Victor's trousers, took out his phone, got up, and left.

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the Cut-Here tattoo from Poppy Z. Brite's novel, "Exquisite Corpse", if I'm not mistaken... I can't recall the story exactly... (read it many years ago...) but the tattoo stuck with me. ^_^


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

Sunday evening, John was moments away from climbing the walls. After a leisurely morning and a wonderful, intimate breakfast with just the two of them, Sherlock had become more and more nervous throughout the day. He hadn't been able to keep still since late that afternoon, pacing back and forth and muttering garbled nonsense in a low-pitched conversation with himself and not sharing his thoughts with John. The only thing John knew was that Sherlock had been trying to reach Mycroft all day.

No further clues had turned up in the meantime. Neither MI5 nor Scotland Yard had made contact, and even Moriarty seemed to have better things to do on Sunday than perpetrating any of his outrages. Nonetheless, John seemed to have missed something. There was no other way to explain Sherlock's behaviour. He might even be keeping something from John, although John had hoped the secret-mongering would lessen following their last conversation on the topic.

John sighed and tossed his medical journal onto the coffee table, then got up to place himself in Sherlock's path. Annoyed, Sherlock paused on his route around the flat and stared at John as if he expected some explanation. John clasped Sherlock's face gently.

"You're driving me insane. Please tell me what's going on. Is there anything I can do to calm you down?" John asked, lowering his hands.

Sherlock's eyes widened as if he only now realised what he had been doing. He made a frustrated sound and climbed over the coffee table to drop onto the couch. "Why isn't he making contact?!" he complained, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Mycroft?" John probed, even though he knew the answer before Sherlock gave him a disgusted look.

"Of course not. I'm talking about Moriarty. Even he should know Mycroft doesn't count as a friend it would be worth kidnapping... and if he did take him, he can keep him. The two of them would get on like a house on fire!" Sherlock sniped and curled up on the couch like a cat, with his face to the back of the seat.

"Don't say things like that," John pleaded and went into the kitchen to put water on to boil. Sherlock's nervousness made him furious, even though he understood that Sherlock wanted to put Moriarty behind bars as soon as possible. A tiny voice in the back of his head couldn't help remarking that Sherlock was simply missing his favourite plaything. John shook his head unhappily.

_Nonsense... Sherlock respects Moriarty, but he'd never let anything happen to his friends..._

When John returned to the living room with two steaming mugs of tea, Sherlock was standing by the window with his iPhone pressed to his ear.

"Mm... mm... yes... when are you landing? Yes... fine. I'll be there." Sherlock ended the call and put the phone in his trouser pocket.

"News?" John asked, setting the two mugs on the desk.

"Not exactly... Mycroft's finally reported in. He's at the airport in Frankfurt, arriving in London in a little less than two hours. I'm going to meet with him afterwards to discuss the next steps," Sherlock said without turning around.

"You have a plan?"

Sherlock slowly turned to face John. His eyes gleamed brightly in the reflection of the street lamps through the window. The smile on his lips seemed forced.

"No..." he said slowly, "just a theory. But I need to speak to Mycroft about it first. He may have new information from Russia that can help us move forward. It appears as if Moriarty has his fingers in so many pies that MI5's hand is finally being forced to intervene..."

"That's good, isn't it?" John asked, silently hoping that this would mean Sherlock wouldn't end up in Moriarty's line of fire.

But Sherlock chuckled joylessly. "I'll have to wait and see."

They drank their tea together and watched the news, although John could tell Sherlock was light-years away with his thoughts. He obviously didn't like the fact that his big brother was part of the game now and was threatening to seize control of the decision-making process regarding Moriarty. John rolled his eyes as he got a whiff of the fraternal rivalry.

When it was time, Sherlock put on his anthracite-coloured suit jacket and straightened the lapels. John went with him as far as the door. Following a sudden impulse, he reached for Sherlock's arm and pulled the bewildered man into an embrace.

"Take care of yourself," he said and kissed Sherlock lightly. "And don't stay out too long. It's already late."

A warm smile appeared on Sherlock's face. He slid one hand up the nape of John's neck, pulled him into another kiss, and rubbed his thumb along John's cheek. "I'll be back soon. Promise."

John waited until Sherlock had closed the door behind himself before going back up the stairs to the first floor. No sooner had he got to the top of the stairs than he heard his phone ping from the table in the living room. Surprised, he furrowed his brow and went over to check it. He couldn't imagine that Sherlock had sent him a text the moment he'd left the house.

_Something important I meant to say_ – It really was a message from Sherlock – _I love you. – SH_

John's heart did a somersault. A warm, comforting tingling sensation spread through his body, making a grin appear from ear to ear. That was so typical of Sherlock: to withdraw from the situation and confess his love via text message rather than say it directly to John's face. It was almost funny. John closed his eyes and tapped his phone against his forehead pensively. Then, whistling to himself, he cleared away the empty mugs and sat down on the couch to watch a film while he waited for Sherlock to return.

Nearly an hour went by before his phone buzzed again to announce that a message had come in. This time it was from Victor. John hadn't expected to receive a reply from Sherlock's long-time friend at all anymore. Frowning, he dragged his fingers across the screen.

_Hi John._

John stared at the scant letters in confusion. It only took a few seconds until another message popped up.

_Where would you look for someone who'd been sleeping for a hundred years?_

"What the hell..." John murmured, reading the message again. Wasting no time, he dialled Victor's number and waited for the phone to ring, but no sooner had it started than the call was ended. John growled, pulled the phone away from his ear, and typed in a reply.

_What's this about, Victor? What are you trying to tell me? – John._

John started to get worried. An uneasy feeling spread through his gut, making a cold shiver run down his back. He stared tensely at his phone, waiting for a reply.

_Roses are red, his lips are blue..._

All of a sudden, there didn't seem to be any oxygen left in 221B. John's throat closed off, leaving him gasping desperately for air. With shaky fingers, he used the quick-dial button to enter Sherlock's number. His mind was racing. Something was pounding dully at the back of his skull as various scenarios shot through his head.

He saw Victor in Moriarty's clutches. Victor working together with Moriarty and threatening Sherlock. Sherlock at the mercy of Moriarty. Red roses, blue lips... what could that mean? _Sleeping for a hundred years..._ It reminded John of something but he couldn't place what. Moriarty... damn it! Did he have Victor's phone in his possession, or what kind of prank was being played on him here?

The phone rang once on the other end, followed suddenly by clicks and static. Then silence. John stared at the phone in his hand, nonplussed. He dialled again, got up, and went over to the desk where the fairy tale book from the Brothers Grimm lay which they'd found in Mrs Hudson's kitchen. As he listened once more to the phone ringing and subsequent clicks and static, John flipped open the book and scanned the table of contents. His eye was caught by the title "Sleeping Beauty."

Roses...

A tone sounded, signalling another incoming message.

_Not so easy when no one's there to help you think, is it? Tick tock!_

John sat down resolutely at his laptop, opened a new browser window, and entered the words 'London' and 'Rose' in the search engine as fast as he could type. He was fairly certain by now that Victor was in the hands of either Moriarty or his henchmen. What ridiculous reason would Victor have to play such a sick game with John? Jealousy or not – this went too far. Besides, the clue about the fairy tale couldn't be dismissed so easily.

John scrolled through various entries, skimming the names of businesses and trying to find some point of reference that would take him to the next step. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs and adrenaline rushed through his veins, making his head buzz. The thought that Victor's life might lie in his hands drilled painfully at his conscience.

_Damn, damn, damn! I'm not Sherlock Holmes!_

Grinding his teeth, he stood up and ruffled his hair. He tried to calm down, take deep breaths, and think clearly. He might not be Sherlock Holmes, but he'd spent enough time with the detective, had solved countless cases with him, and was anything but stupid. It couldn't be that hard to arrive at the solution! Moriarty obviously intended this as a test. To rile him up, maybe watch him fail. But John wasn't going to give up that easily.

He blew the air out of his lungs until his chest contracted, then inhaled calmly and bent over the book of fairy tales. He concentrated as he scanned each page, looking for key words as he ran through possible locations in the back of his mind.

The Rose Garden. Too obvious; unlikely.

Princess, tower... the Tower of London? That would be a great backdrop for Moriarty, right up his alley. Although the security services might have noticed if someone had broken in or snuck in. Backdrop... Moriarty needed a stage, but probably wouldn't want anyone to interf... John quickly sat back down on the chair and ran through the last set of results from the search. His eye stopped on the entry for the Rose Playhouse on Park Street.

Taking the stairs two at a time, John hurried up to the second floor and opened his dresser to take out his Sig Sauer P226R. He had it loaded and secured in his waistband behind his back with just a few practised flicks of his wrist. He put on a lightweight black jacket to conceal the firearm then fetched his phone from the living room and dialled Sherlock's number again as he went down the stairs. However, the call was cut short once more. There was clearly something very wrong.

Out on the street, he hailed the first cab he saw and got into the back, gave the address of the theatre, and went through all of his most recent text messages. A monitor installed between the front and back seats of the car informed passengers about the current wares on offer on a shopping channel. It took a moment before John realised that the same fifteen seconds kept playing on repeat. Baffled, he took a closer look at the screen. The shopping channel was abruptly replaced by a test pattern, followed by static.

Suddenly, Moriarty's grinning face appeared. John's blood ran cold.

"Dr Watson, how nice to see you! Doing well, I see – but that will change soon enough," the Irishman lilted cheerfully. "You and Sherlock have really, truly stood in my way long enough. It's so tiresome to have to keep picking up the pieces you two leave behind on your crusades. But do I hold a grudge?" Moriarty tilted his head to one side and screwed up his face before his lips spread into a broad grin.

"Oh yes, I certainly do! I'm going to take everything away from him that he cares about! But what does one take from a man who doesn't care about anyone or anything?" The man with the pitch black eyes held his hand up in front of his mouth in a parody of surprise.

"Oh, that's right! There are a handful of people our supposed sociopath cares about more than he'd admit. And I know everything thanks to you, Dr Watson! You're really a very interesting research subject!" Moriarty shook his head slightly, that smile still on his face.

"Once I have you where I want you, Dr Watson, Sherlock is going to come to me entirely of his own accord. I think it's really quite charming how well you're cooperating!" The camera zoomed in close to his face, which was distorted with madness, until the light behind the camera was reflected in his pupils.

"I'm looking forward to seeing his heart burning. I'm going to enjoy it, Dr Watson; oh, how I'm going to enjoy it! And now off with you, off to the den of the... tiger..."

The shot pulled back, showing a man sitting on a chair in front of a cardboard backdrop in a theatre. Roses and thorny vines wound around the props. There was a flickering and the sound of static and then the screen went black. At the same time, the car stopped. John sprang out of the cab and pounded on the driver's window.

"What the hell is going on?!" he screamed furiously, then froze when the man at the wheel turned around. Moriarty grinned at him from beneath the blue baseball cap with Union Jack embroidery.

"No charge!"

Before John could do anything, the cab was already out of sight. John stared after it, stunned. None of this made any sense. If Moriarty wanted to get his hands on John, why had he just let him go? John ground his teeth impatiently and looked around. The building where the Rose Playhouse was located lay just a few metres away. He took his phone out of his trouser pocket. 11:47 PM. The phone rang, making John flinch unconsciously.

"John?"

"Sherlock? Where are you?" John asked, panic in his voice.

"I just got into a cab to come home. The meeting with Mycroft took longer than expected... You tried to reach me several times but the calls didn't show up until now. What's happened?"

His pistol in one hand and his phone in the other, John crept around the building, looking for a way in. He found a heavy metal door that had been propped open with an empty bottle. A single naked bulb flickered above the door. John stopped a short distance away and squeezed into the shadow of a wall.

"I received a message from Victor's phone but I don't think he wrote it," he whispered. "He's probably in danger."

"Where are you now?" Sherlock asked, struggling to remain calm. John gave him the address.

"It looks like this is all pointing toward another fairy tale," John said, focusing hard on the back alley and trying to make out shapes in the dark. "I'll forward the message to you."

"Good, I'll let Lestrade know right away. Wait until I'm there!"

"Okay," John answered and ended the call. Just a fraction of a second later, another text message came in.

_Oh, Dr Watson, that wasn't very clever of you. The longer you wait, the more certain it is that our Sleeping Beauty will fall into an eternal sleep!_

John ground his teeth in frustration. It wasn't just the message that gave him pause, but the fact that his every move was being observed. He glanced up at the windows nervously, trying in vain to make anything out. But whoever was watching him didn't seem to have orders to kill him. Otherwise that would have already happened.

He stepped decisively out of the shadows and strode straight over to the heavy metal door. He pulled it open and peered inside but couldn't see anything. With an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he squeezed through the opening, making sure that the door was still held open by the bottle, and felt his way along the wall, looking for a light switch. He'd only moved a few metres away from the door when he heard a loud clatter, then a crash, and the door fell shut. Someone had kicked the bottle, sending it into the building, where it had shattered. He quickly retraced those few steps and pushed against the door, but it didn't move a single millimetre. Resigned to his fate, he resumed his search for a light switch, finally found one, and flipped it on.

The neon tube lights on the ceiling overhead flickered on, revealing a grubby corridor leading further inside the building. There was a stairway to the right heading upstairs. He cautiously glanced up past the railing and caught a glimpse of the stairwell, but he didn't see or hear anything suspicious. He flinched briefly when the phone in his pocket vibrated.

_Moriarty is on Southwark Bridge. Let Lestrade and his team search the theatre and come to the bridge! – SH_

John cursed himself for not having waiting a little longer outside. But his thoughts of Victor had made him press forward. The message he'd received just before had made it fairly clear that the man was in danger. Even if it was just a trick to lure John inside, he didn't want to risk being responsible for the death of Sherlock's old friend.

John crept forward as quietly as possible, both hands wrapped around his gun. His path led him past dark blue curtains all along the right-hand wall. On his left were doors, but they all seemed to be locked. He looked up to check and see if he could estimate or exclude any dangers coming from that direction. When he saw a gap in the curtain, he moved it aside a little and peered through. He saw the outline of a stage, the back side of a cardboard prop, and a small amount of warm light falling on the floorboards from the ceiling. He slowly pushed his way through the curtain and tried to stay behind the scenery in order to minimise his surface area exposed to an attack.

He managed to get a better look at the stage from a vantage point between two props. At the point where the spotlight beams crossed, a figure lay on the floor in the midst of a sea of white petals. John recognised the mussed blond hair and body build as being Victor's. A sickly sweet aroma prickled in John's nose. He tried hard to make anything out further back, but beyond the first two or three rows of seats, the rest of the hall disappeared in absolute darkness.

John looked up in alarm when the man on the floor started to move and made a tormented sound. He curled in on himself in pain, scrabbling at the flower petals strewn around him. The rustling and crackling made it clear that they must be dried.

John boldly stepped out of his hiding place. He went to Victor's side, knelt down next to him, and turned him onto his back. The smell of the flowers combined with a slimy, greenish-brown mess. John wasn't sure yet whether it was a good sign or not that Victor had apparently vomited. His lips were cyanotic and there was sweat on his forehead, running down the sides of his face to his neck. He kept convulsing with pain. John checked his racing pulse and dilated pupils with expert hands.

"Victor! Can you hear me?" John asked in a loud voice, but there was no response. John moved him into the recovery position in case he threw up again. After that he picked up one of the petals and examined it closely, then smelled it.

He checked on his phone for an entry on poisonous roses and soon found it: _Helleborus niger_. Also known as the Christmas rose. Its blooming period was long past, however, which explained the dried petals. All of the parts of the flower were poisonous, but the capsules in particular were so potent that three were sufficient to cause death. Someone must have given Victor a high dose. He needed to get to a hospital immediately or he wouldn't survive the night. Victor moaned an unintelligible word, and John leaned down over him.

"I'm calling an ambulance, Victor. It'll be over soon," John tried to placate him.

"...ger..." Victor gasped, writhing with fresh cramps. John rapidly tapped on his phone to call the paramedics. An all too familiar clicking sounded in John's ear. The sound of a bullet being slotted into the barrel of a gun. John froze.

"I'd leave it if I were you, Dr Watson."

The words ate their way into John's mind, cold and dark. His body switched to autopilot, registering the person behind him to the left pointing a gun at his head, calculated the risk, the chance of escape, the probability of evading a shot at such close range. It was pretty bad. He recognised the voice, even if their last face-to-face meeting had taken place many years ago. He'd found the voice pleasant if a bit cool then, as now. Suitable for a man in his position.

"Colonel Moran," John said calmly, avoiding any unnecessary movements. "I was wondering when you'd finally turn up."

Moran chuckled mirthlessly. "I don't generally like the spotlight, as I'm sure you're aware. I prefer to eliminate my target from a distance."

"And yet you're front and centre today..."

"Must be because I'm getting paid not to shoot you. My boss can be rather peevish when his orders aren't followed. So if you would please lay your gun aside? We're expected." Moran spoke with an impatient tone to his voice. It seemed he was already behind schedule with his boss's plans. John did as he was asked and shoved his Sig Sauer away to place it beyond his reach. The weapon skidded noisily across the floor.

"I need to call for an ambulance," John said matter-of-factly. His eyes slid worriedly over Victor's pale face. His shallow breaths were interrupted by another series of convulsions. He wouldn't be able to endure this torture much longer.

"You don't need to do anything. He's going to die and there's nothing you can do about it. Chalk it up to collateral damage. And now get up or you'll miss Holmes's execution," Moran declared smugly.

John, who was still kneeling with his back to the other man, got his right leg under him first, then his left. With his upward motion, he twirled skilfully around his own axis, calculating the distance to Moran: he should have stood a bit further away. John only needed a quick step to slam the heel of his hand against the gun from below.

A shot went off, the bullet flying somewhere out into the darkened hall. John automatically noted the make of the gun and reached for the slide to prevent another shot. With his free hand, he grabbed Moran's wrist and spun around so that he stood with his back to him, Moran's elbow on John's shoulder. One strong jerk was followed by an ugly crack and a grinding sound right next to John's ear. Moran's scream echoed in the auditorium as the handgun went crashing to the floor.

Taking advantage of the moment of surprise, John turned to the right, still firmly holding Moran's wrist. The other man lost his balance and landed hard on the floor. Pain and fury flared up in his eyes. With gritted teeth and a beastly growl, Moran lifted himself up far enough to reach his ankle. John realised the sharpshooter had a second weapon on him. With great presence of mind, he leaned over for the gun which had landed on the floor and pointed it at Moran. The shot went off before John even had time to think about it.

All of Moran's vitality seemed to leech out of him. A dark red circle spread across his chest, becoming more oval in shape until a few moments later a puddle of red had spread beneath him. John blew the air out of his lungs, his strength sapped. He approached the other man tentatively, still pointing the gun at him. He took the second pistol off Moran and crouched down next to him to check his pulse.

He was dead.

John gathered up the second weapon along with his Sig Sauer, secured them all, and went over to Victor. After checking his pulse as well – which was dangerously low – he fished his phone out of his trouser pocket. He called for an ambulance first, then dialled Greg's number. It only took two blinks of an eye before he heard Greg's familiar voice.

"We've just arrived in front of the theatre. Where are you?" the Detective Inspector demanded in lieu of a greeting.

"In the auditorium. I've taken Moran out. Victor Trevor's lying here. He's been poisoned with Christmas roses. I've already rung for an ambulance. Come in through the back." As John spoke, he slipped through the dark blue curtain, inspecting the fuse box that hung on the right-hand wall. He quickly activated all of the switches. Light flooded the corridor, the auditorium, and most likely all of the other rooms in the theatre.

His next call was to Sherlock. Sherlock, who had been alone with Moriarty for much too long on Southwark Bridge.

Sherlock, whose voice sounded so terribly flat. "Hello?"

"Moran's dead, Sherlock, I'll be right there!" John cried, but the call was cut off. He cursed and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

Rather than waiting for the police, John jumped off the stage and ran up the narrow aisle between the rows of seats to get to the lobby. The glass theatre doors were locked, of course, but John heaved up one of the heavy chrome-plated rubbish bins that stood next to the entrance and threw it through the pane. The alarm squealed immediately. John kicked at the shattered glass to widen the opening and get out. He tossed the two weapons that had belonged to Moran into the bin, which now lay on its side.

Out on the street, he saw two patrol cars, and in the distance he could hear the ambulance's siren. Without wasting another minute, he ran off.

 

+++

tbc

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

_23:44_

Sherlock left his brother's office in a grim mood. The conversation had been more relaxed than expected. More of an exchange of information than a discussion. Amazingly, the two men found themselves on the same side, had come to the same conclusion, and were going to follow the same plan of action in order to rid the world of the evil that went by the name of James Moriarty. No matter the cost.

_No matter the cost..._

Sherlock hailed the first cab he saw and got in, gave the Baker Street address, and took his iPhone out of the pocket of his suit jacket. He froze when he saw the missed calls from John light up the screen. His phone hadn't rung a single time. Worry spread through him. He entered his friend's number and listened anxiously to the sound of it ringing on the other end.

"John?" he said as soon as he picked up.

"Sherlock? Where are you?" John asked. It was impossible not to hear the concern and alarm in his voice.

"I just got into a cab to come home. The meeting with Mycroft took longer than expected... You tried to reach me several times but the calls didn't show up until now. What's happened?" Sherlock asked uneasily.

Something wasn't right. Something had happened; something he'd missed. Something that was lurking in the shadows, slowly closing in on him. Had the spider already spun its web around them without them noticing? Was Moriarty a step ahead of them? Sherlock listened tensely to the sound of John breathing over the phone.

"I received a message from Victor's phone but I don't think he wrote it," John whispered. "He may be in danger."  
_Victor_... something in Sherlock's chest squeezed painfully. He suddenly felt light-headed and dug his fingers into the seat to anchor himself.

"Where are you now?" Sherlock asked, struggling to remain calm. John gave him the address of the theatre.

"It looks like this is all pointing toward another fairy tale," John said. "I'll forward the message to you."

"Good, I'll let Lestrade know right away. Wait until I'm there!"

"Okay," John answered and ended the call.

Sherlock quickly tapped out a couple of lines to Greg, asking him to send reinforcements to the Rose Playhouse. His eyes darted nervously back and forth without focusing on anything in particular as he waited for the forwarded message from John. But nothing came. John had apparently received some clue relating to a fairy tale, but as he hadn't told Sherlock anything else, Sherlock couldn't make heads or tails out of it. The address of the theatre alone wasn't enough to deduce what had happened to Victor. His fingers shaking, he checked the Rose Playhouse's online programme in the hope of stumbling across a clue, but didn't find anything that might have been even remotely related to the Brothers Grimm.

When the alert finally sounded on his phone and Sherlock opened the app expectantly, there was no message from John; rather, it was from Mr James Moriarty...

_[Today, 17.06.2012] I'm waiting for you on Southwark Bridge, darling! Don't make me wait too long!_

"Stop here," Sherlock said to the driver, who turned to him in confusion but then pulled over to the kerb and stopped. He glanced toward the back in the rear view mirror, looking his passenger over curiously, but it appeared as if he were carrying on an internal monologue and ignoring the driver completely. As long as the metre was running, though, he didn't care how long they sat around.

Sherlock clasped his hands in front of his face and audibly exhaled the air from his lungs. He hadn't reckoned with a direct confrontation with Moriarty this soon. The fact that he'd spoken with Mycroft just a few minutes ago could only be termed a happy coincidence. Or else it was a setup. Had someone been listening in? Was the game up? No matter what was about to happen next, it had to happen quickly.

It was obvious that Moriarty intended to separate John from Sherlock and use him to put pressure on Sherlock somehow. Sherlock had no doubt that Sebastian Moran was already waiting for John in that theatre. That meant they had two hostages; two people Sherlock cared about. The point being to prove that even the cold-hearted Sherlock Holmes wasn't above the greatest human weakness: _sentiment_. He needed to warn John, needed to prevent him from walking into this trap which might determine the success or failure of the plan.

He composed another message to John even as he instructed the driver to drive to Southwark Bridge.

_Moriarty is on Southwark Bridge. Let Lestrade and his team search the theatre and come to the bridge! – SH_

He tapped his fingers nervously against his lips and looked out the window as the ride continued. Many things were going to change that night. But Moriarty needed to be stopped. _No matter the cost._

 

*****

 

_00:03_

The barely two-hundred-metre stretch of Southwark Bridge with its turquoise-and-gold steel arches wasn't completely empty, even at this time of night. The tower-shaped pylons gave the bridge an old-fashioned appearance. Spotlights had been mounted on the supports which rose above the water to illuminate them. The warm, golden light of the street lamps gave the scene a surreal air.

Sherlock's taxi stopped on the side of the bridge leading from the City to Southwark. He paid the driver, got out, and looked down the street. In the distance, he could see a figure. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then set off. The closer he got to the person, the more details coalesced out of the diffuse light.

The self-confident pose, the weight casually shifted onto the right foot, the hands in the trouser pockets. The perfectly tailored, dark blue Westwood suit with matching tie. The black hair slicked back with gel, one strand falling loose to dance in the wind. And last but not least, the dark, motionless eyes in an ashen face.

"Sherlock," Moriarty greeted him in that sing-song manner that always sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. Moriarty's mouth pulled into a mad grin, accompanied by a flash in his eyes. Sherlock was irritated to note the way his heart beat faster with every step he took across the bridge. He didn't want – _couldn't_ afford – to show any weakness, or Moriarty would tear him apart like a scrap of paper.

"James Moriarty. Long time no see," Sherlock replied and stopped a good three metres away from the other man. A car drove past them, and the hiss of the asphalt combined with an amused laugh.

"Oh, Sherlock. I've never let you out of my sight. I've been following every one of your moves and enjoying watching you on all of your adventures. All the little puzzles and games... your successes and failures... a marvellous pastime!"

"Scotland Yard is arresting your middlemen and breaking up the drug ring as we speak. It's only a matter of time before the rest follow," Sherlock declared, thrusting his chin out combatively.

Moriarty chuckled with amusement. "Small fry... If I hadn't wanted it to happen, those bumblers at Scotland Yard wouldn't even have realised drugs were being sold in this town! You of all people should realise how simple it is to gain access to" – and here Moriarty made air quotes with his index and middle fingers and rolled his eyes – " _illegal_ substances, if you know whom to ask. Frankly, no one wants to put me out of business because everyone knows their job's at risk one way or the other." Moriarty shrugged and rested his hands on his hips.

"Because you have your hand in everywhere... even if one thread snaps, the web remains intact. It doesn't make any difference whether your illegal dealings are exposed or whether you lose interest in some business and raze it to the ground. In the end, the spider's web sustains..."

"...the entire economy. Well, a large part anyway. A little competition keeps things hopping, after all," Moriarty interrupted Sherlock's deduction. "However, you and your pet, along with dear old Mycroft, have been digging a little too deeply into my affairs. And although I've had a grand time watching you wrack your pretty little head over it, we've reached the point at which I can no longer allow you to rummage around in my drawers." The tone in Moriarty's voice had turned cooler and more threatening, his expression stonier.

Sherlock watched the transformation with interest. He'd thought something along those lines. Mycroft's agents had put out their feelers and discovered various hubs around the world with connections to the organisation, which was active in a diverse range of businesses. The greatest weakness of Moriarty's system was the incredible scope of his network. Not even a man like Moriarty could manage to maintain control all the time and everywhere, which meant he needed to delegate some of the tasks. And as good as his people were, they weren't in possession of the same intellect as Moriarty, and made mistakes. Were greedy. The chameleon case was just one such example.

The preparations were already underway to take Moriarty's organisation apart piece by piece through this Achilles heel.

"Unlike you, your brother's rather easy to manipulate. It didn't take much to find out his greatest weakness," Moriarty said self-importantly, walking slowly toward Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't move, instead standing on his chosen spot without moving a single muscle, all the while watching the other man closely as he circled around him.

"At first I thought it would be enough to discover your weakness, to take what you cared about away from you. To get you under my control. But..." Moriarty stopped right in front of Sherlock, staring at him with his eyes flung open wide, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You're just like me! You don't care about consequences. Pain doesn't affect you. You do whatever you think is right! Mycroft, on the other hand..." Moriarty made a half turn and took two steps away before spinning back around and stopping just a short distance from Sherlock. He leaned forward so far that his face nearly brushed Sherlock's jaw. "...will do anything to protect his little brother," he whispered.

Sherlock held his breath tensely. His eyes flicked back and forth between Moriarty's. Between two deep black seas that seemed to reflect nothing other than megalomania.

"Getting you here was as easy as pie. You simply cannot resist the thrill, can you? And John Watson could have used your help so desperately!"

"John's on his way here," Sherlock retorted, cursing inwardly at the fact that his voice didn't sound nearly as certain as he'd intended.

"Is he? Sherlock calls and the brave little soldier obeys? I think John Watson is a much more loyal friend than you are, Sherlock! He would never leave a wounded man back on the battlefield. Not even if he were a rival in a love affair..." Moriarty tilted his head to one side in a parody of coquetry and pouted, blinking at Sherlock with big eyes. "And then the trap snapped shut. Oopsie!" Moriarty stepped back again before he continued.

"With John in my hands, you belong to me. With you in my hands, I've got Mycroft, and with him practically the entire British government under my control. Isn't that funny? Just when you think you're dealing with intelligent people, it turns out they're just like everyone else. Ordinary!" Moriarty barked, leaning on the railing to look down at the water of the Thames. An odd expression came over his face.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, bewildered. Was that a hint of melancholy? Did Moriarty regret the fact that his plan had apparently worked, and now the game was over? Played out? Boring?

Just then, Sherlock's phone rang. He took it out of the pocket of his suit jacket and glanced at the screen. It took a concerted effort for him to keep his facial expression under control.

Moriarty turned toward him, one hand resting on the railing.

"Would you mind?" Sherlock asked apologetically. The scene reminded him of their first meeting at the swimming pool, when Moriarty had received a call while Sherlock and John were being threatened by snipers. Maybe it was due to the repetition that Moriarty shrugged indifferently.

"Be my guest!" he said and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. "You've got the rest of your life..."

"Hello?" Sherlock said neutrally. He listened to the voice on the other end, and now he could no longer sustain his neutrality. John's voice was a balm to his soul, even more so than the content of his words.

_Moran is dead. Sherlock, I'll be right there!_

John was alive! John wasn't in the clutches of Moriarty's men! A smile spread involuntarily across his lips.

"What...?" Moriarty asked darkly. "What's happened?"

Sherlock stuck the phone into his trouser pocket, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. His expression somewhere between euphoria and certain victory.

"The game is over! You've lost!"

"What are you talking about?" Reluctance in Moriarty's tone. His dark eyes fixed on Sherlock: severe and calculating.

"You've made a huge mistake, James. You've vastly underestimated John Watson. Moran is dead and John will be here any moment with Scotland Yard in tow!" A triumphant smile spread across Sherlock's face. He was filled with pride. Pride at the fact that John – his John – had saved the day.

"No..." Moriarty breathed out. He hastily grabbed for his mobile phone and tapped around on the screen. The news had apparently already got out to his network. Sebastian Moran was dead, the plan had gone awry. All hell could break loose at any moment.

Sherlock watched in surprise as Moriarty put his phone away. His face had gone a shade paler. A flicker in his eyes, a brief twitch of his eyebrows. A tremble in his lower lip as he softly whispered a name. Cracks in the otherwise slick facade. If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd have thought he was standing in front of a man with a broken heart.

But no sooner had he completed the thought than Moriarty returned his attention to Sherlock. An icy fire in his eyes, threatening to burn him alive. Sherlock instinctively leapt forward when he realised Moriarty was sticking his hand into his jacket to reach for a gun. The metal flashed golden in the light of the street lamps. Sherlock felt the revolver's muzzle under his fingers, the contrast between hard and soft when he brushed the back of Moriarty's hand.

A shot rang out.

 

*****

 

John's body was in flames. Every fibre of him was on fire, the night air burning in his lungs. He was running as fast as he could, as fast as his feet would carry him, and he still had the feeling that time was slipping through his fingers. The Rose Playhouse was just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Southwark Bridge. He could already make out Sherlock's lanky figure in the distance. John's stomach squeezed painfully when he saw Sherlock jump toward Moriarty. A loud bang followed.

John flinched instinctively, stumbled, and fell. He landed hard on his knees and elbows, felt the hard stone slabs tearing open both his jacket and the skin underneath it. Without taking his eyes off the other two men, he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the buzzing in his bones. Everything around him seemed to be taking place in slow motion. He felt for his gun as he ran, tried to aim, screamed something to get the two men's attention. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard police sirens.

He watched in dismay as Moriarty and Sherlock kept turning in a circle together, bumping into a street lamp and the railing of the bridge. As Moriarty's left hand closed around Sherlock's throat and clamped down, pushing him further and further over the steel railing. Sherlock, his fingers wrapped around the barrel of the revolver, propped one foot against the railing for counterweight to twist out of the chokehold. With his other hand, he grabbed Moriarty's lapels and yanked on them.

_Only a couple more metres. A couple of metres!_

In shock, John watched as Sherlock let go of the gun and reached for Moriarty with his other hand too in order to pull him with him. Over the railing. John never made it. He could only watch as they tumbled over and down. Another shot tore through the night. Then they hit the water.

"No, no! NO!!!" John roared helplessly. He stared down at the surface of the water as if in a trance, waiting for the two bodies to come back up. His breath rattled in his lungs. He heard tyres screech, sirens blare, and blue lights flared up in his peripheral vision. He only registered those things subconsciously, though, as he ran to the end of the bridge and raced down the stairs on the side. The spotlights on the supports were the only source of light dancing on the otherwise pitch-black swells of the Thames.

As if through a thick fog, he heard someone calling his name. Just as he put his foot onto the guardrail to climb over it to the water, several hands grabbed him and pulled him back. Dragged him away. John tried desperately to fight back, to tear himself away, to help. To find Sherlock...

"John!"

A slap hit John hard in the face. He blinked several times in confusion before he recognised Greg crouched down in front of him. Two policemen had wrestled John to the ground and held his arms to stop him from getting up and jumping into the river.

"John, calm down! Emergency services are on their way. They'll find him. It's not going to help us if you jump into the water too!"

Mustering all of his strength, John slowly managed to calm down. The two policemen finally let him go, and Greg helped him to his feet.

"You know you're a bloody idiot, don't you?!" Greg scolded him, drawing John into an embrace and making it difficult to breathe. "How did you think you were going to be able to do anything in the dark?!"

It took a long fifteen minutes before the rescue boat arrived and started searching the water under Southwark Bridge and the surrounding area. John and Greg had returned to the spot from which Sherlock and Moriarty had fallen, where they watched the rescue team work. Police officers buzzed around them, collecting evidence and taking photographs of the scene of the accident.

At some point, Sally Donovan came over to the two men and handed Greg two cardboard cups with tea in them, since John didn't react to her. He was still staring out across the water, trying to make something out in the area where the water wasn't lit up by the spotlights. Nothing. The black, impenetrable mass had simply swallowed Sherlock and Moriarty up.

The crowd of people slowly dispersed until only a patrol car and Greg's car were left. The rescue team were still searching when dawn began to break, shrouding the water and the city skyline in a gloomy grey. An officer approached Greg, holding a radio in his hand.

"Sir, the rescue team've just told me they're going back to the harbour to refuel and send out the next shift. They'll report in as soon as there are any developments," he said, sending a questioning glance in John's direction.

"Good, I'll... good," Greg said, letting his colleague know with a tilt of his head that he'd take care of the civilian.

"John..." he said gently once the other officer had moved away. "John, you should go home and get some rest... they'll let us know as soon as they find anything..."

"He's gone..." John whispered. Regret was reflected in Greg's expression when he wrapped an arm around John's shoulders.

"The chances will be better of finding him once it gets light..." he tried to point out. He was well aware that the chances got worse the longer they had to search. At seven metres, the bridge wasn't very high, but an uncontrolled impact with the water could have led to a loss of consciousness and subsequent drowning. Greg knew that, and John knew it too.

"Come on," Greg tried again, tugging on John's arm. John reluctantly let himself be led down off the bridge and onto the passenger seat of Greg's car.

 

*****

 

The following week, John crossed Southwark Bridge every day, stopping in the middle for a few minutes to look down at the water. No reports had come in from the rescue team. Neither positive nor negative. Both Sherlock and Moriarty remained missing.

Afterwards, John would go to the hospital to visit Victor. He'd survived the poisoning but needed to remain under observation for some time as the high dosage had damaged his organs. He was asleep this time when John went into his room and dragged over a chair to sit next to Victor's bed.

John didn't know whether Victor was aware of his daily visits. He'd never been awake for more than a couple of minutes before, and had never made a sound. One time, he'd stared apathetically out the window but not reacted to John in any way.

John lackadaisically leafed through a two-year-old magazine he'd brought in from the waiting area, skimming the gossip articles. He still couldn't bring himself to look at a current newspaper. They kept reporting on the disappearance of the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, including all sorts of wild speculations that promptly turned John's stomach.

"Where's Sherlock?"

John looked up from an article about the royal family. Tired blue eyes peered out from between swollen lids, looking him over carefully. John sighed and set the magazine aside before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"How are you feeling?" he asked rather than giving an answer.

"Shitty..."

John smirked and leaned back. "You look it too. Do you remember what happened?"

Victor rubbed his eyes with his right hand and blinked a few times, then brushed a couple of strands of hair off his forehead before putting his arm back underneath the warm blanket.

"Some of it..." he said and closed his eyes.

"What do you remember?" John pressed.

Victor snorted scornfully and turned onto his side so he could look John in the eyes. "That guy everyone calls Tiger... he showed me this theatre and gave me some coke. Other than that... nothing."

"Hm..." John said, crossing his arms. He watched Victor closely as he continued speaking: "The cocaine was laced with black hellebore. He tried to kill you." John didn't fail to take note of the shudder that ran through the other man at those words. Yet only a moment later, Victor appeared to have himself back under control. He chuckled without humour.

"And now you're here to say 'I told you so'?" he quipped acidly.

"No," John replied, swallowing down the rest of what he'd been about to say. Instead, he picked up the magazine again and pretended to read it. Sunbeams warmed his back. The silence was broken at regular intervals by the beeping of the machines monitoring Victor's vital signs. John already thought that Victor had fallen back asleep, but when he looked up again, he was met by his gaze.

"What then?" Victor asked, and John thought he heard a touch of trepidation in his voice, which was usually bursting with self-confidence.

"I wanted to be sure that you... got through this whole thing..." John answered evasively, looking off to one side. Just then, the door to the hospital room opened, and John's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Mycroft..."

Victor turned onto his back and greeted the unexpected visitor. "It's been a while, Mycroft..."

The elder Holmes brother nodded to the two men and approached the bed. As usual, he was wearing an elegant three-piece suit. A gold chain dangled from the pocket of his waistcoat. His eyes were stiff and cool, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"John, Victor... I apologise for taking advantage of the opportunity to have both of you in the same room. It saves me having to repeat what I'm about to say."

He extracted a clear Ziploc bag from his briefcase and lay it on the bed over the blanket at the level of Victor's knees. It contained an anthracite-coloured suit jacket and was labelled with a cardboard tag. John felt his throat closing up, making it difficult to breathe. His eyes darted back and forth between Mycroft and the bag.

"What is this?" he asked flatly.

"Sherlock's jacket," Mycroft replied, not beating around the bush. "It was found in the water and has been examined. I didn't think it advisable to inform you immediately, John, but as we can now assume that he..."

"NO!" John shouted and leapt to his feet. His hands curled into fists, he glared at Mycroft grimly.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows disparagingly, reached for the bag, and opened it. He took the jacket out and spread it out on the bed, slid his hand under the lapel, and stuck one finger through a hole at chest level.

"There is only a hole in the front. The assumption is therefore that Sherlock was hit by the bullet. Even if he managed to survive the fall without any further injury, we must assume that he was knocked out upon impact with the water and drowned. John, you're a doctor. You know the chances of survival for an individual who has been shot and lost consciousness in the water, if he isn't found promptly."

The icy edge in Mycroft's voice cut into John with every word. He felt as if he were bleeding out while still conscious. Tears shot into his eyes, and it was only with a concerted effort that he was able to hold them back.

"Would someone please tell me..." Victor's voice cracked halfway through, unable to complete the sentence.

Mycroft sighed and turned to the patient. "I had assumed John would have told you this much already..." He quickly and concisely related the events which had taken place on the bridge, the subsequent fall, and the search. John didn't want to hear it all again. Gritting his teeth, he went to the door to leave the other two alone, only to be stopped by Mycroft.

"John, one more thing. I've given instructions for the search to continue for another while yet. Don't think I'm without feeling. I haven't given up hope. But if there are no leads in three weeks' time, I shall have my brother officially declared dead."

John turned around and gaped at Mycroft in dismay. The fury inside him lashed out with sharp claws, wanting to break free, grab Mycroft by the collar, and break his nose. Wanting to see blood. To feel pain. Physical pain to numb the pain in his soul. But his common sense stepped up just in time and got the beast under control.

It wasn't Mycroft's fault.

"Keep me up to date," he growled between clenched teeth and left the room.

 

*****

 

One month later, John stood with countless other people – only a handful of whom he knew – by the grave of his friend. His lover. As promised, Mycroft had waited, extending the search for three weeks before finally having his younger brother declared dead.

The newspapers couldn't get enough of reporting on the story, and ever since that day journalists had been camped out in front of the black door at 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had sought refuge in her flat, barely leaving the house at all. She only spoke with John and Mrs Turner from next door, constantly complaining about the unspeakable uproar.

Now she stood beside John and sniffled into her lace handkerchief, which she had pressed to her nose. John met Mycroft's gaze from where he stood a little off to the side, a bodyguard on his left and on his right the mysterious assistant who had introduced herself as Anthea at their first meeting. John nodded curtly to Mycroft but looked away again immediately. Fury still bubbled up in him when he saw the politician's impassive expression.

Greg was there too, but he was keeping to the background. He seemed to want to keep an eye on the guests, as if he were afraid there would be some kind of revolt or mass panic. After the eulogy was finally over, the crowd was slow to disperse. There was no reason to stay here any longer and wait for a chance to say a few words to Sherlock.

It wasn't until a few days later that John had a chance to stand alone in front of Sherlock's gravestone of black marble. It was engraved with two simple words. _Sherlock Holmes_. John rested his hand on top of it, seeking any contact whatsoever. Some kind of connection. But there was nothing. Nothing more than cold stone underneath his clammy hand. He wasn't surprised, as there was nothing in the coffin. Sherlock's body had never been found.

"You told me once..." John started and took a deep breath. His voice was shaking. "…that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human but let me tell you this: you were the best man ... the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie...." His body refused to cooperate, wanted to stop him from continuing. John paused and concentrated on his breathing, tried to push back all the images of Sherlock that were forming in his mind.

"I was... so alone... and I owe you so much. I'm so... terribly sorry that it took me so long to... to understand..." John pressed his lips together hard, swallowing down the rest of the sentence. Once he'd collected himself somewhat, he turned around to leave the cemetery, only to pause and turn back.

"Oh, please, there's just one more thing, right? One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me..." John croaked, tears in his voice and in his eyes. Grief in every fibre of his being.

"Don't... be... dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Please.... " Blinded by tears, he wiped his eyes and tried to swallow down the lump that was making it impossible for him to breathe. With one hand, he covered his face, which was distorted with pain, and struggled against the sob that was squeezing out of his throat. It was only with a concerted effort that he was able to calm himself and put some distance between himself and the all-encompassing grief. He took one last look at the letters that had been neatly engraved into the black marble, squared his shoulders, and nodded.

He turned around, walked back up the path toward the church, and left the cemetery where his best friend, his partner, his lover, lay buried.

+++ 

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the coast clear? Can I come out? Or am I going to be lynched? ^^'
> 
> I'm sorry if you were expecting a different ending, but the idea for the Reichenbach Fall – with a twist – has been nagging at me since about the middle of the story, and it simply wouldn't let me go. Some readers might have realised that when the fairy tale cases started (?).
> 
> A huge THANK YOU to [XBelladonnaX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XBelladonnaX), who helped with advice and practical assistance and acted as beta reader (of the German version) since about the midway point. She was a great help with plotting devious deeds and at the same time making sure that I don't get too cruel. Our countless conversations were simply incredibly inspiring! *hugs and kisses*
> 
> Also many THANKS to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) who made it possible to publish this story in English! 
> 
> And an equally big THANK YOU to all the commenters!
> 
> +++
> 
> Next week I will continue with part two “Vertigo”. Until then!

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14207568/chapters/32751174).


End file.
